THE SMELL OF DEAD ORCHIDS

 First Post of 2021...

The sad truth is not the ones that harm us, it is those which reveals the real us. Hope wasted like a fine wine, drinking with the oil and the lust of candle. We yell and smile at the hook and the fish; little do we know we need fire to cook. What if there is a designed destiny, what if there is an umbrella to every rain that falls off season. We walk the road, we look at our shoes, we cry or we feel happy either for the road or for the shoes, never for the two at once. We are but little being appreciating the beauty of the universe but the universe does not give a rat care of what we feel. The oak tree does not have a smell to claim its worth, the rose has a smell but when it is often plucked we find a refuge at the altar of the Zion, not the zoo of course.

 

We have but a sense of ownership and are protective of what is ours. We have immense love stored in us but we are busy to know what we have. In the shores of the unwanted people, we try to establish our worth. Come today, go tomorrow, listen to no one, listen not to your heart. The screams from the street cracks the glass of our windows. Pay now, pay forever, fix now and they will ask you how you fixed the work at display, ring a bell, and toast a drink. We have so much of what is redundant; we care more about it than the ones created through our sweat and ideas.

 

In despotic times, we will find ourselves killing each other or might just end up killing ourselves. Clown down; clap sounds and the butterfly’s rage. The clock says, it’s ten o’ clock. What’s that? Country guns hidden under pillows of hope, breakfast so cold. What we have is nothing, what we want is everything. Never, never, will there be a sun; the moon will be darker yet brighter. Village doors are closed and the winter winds blow. Ravens are white, black is but our hearts. The stain, yes the stain…let me cry, sob, sob. Amen!