Waiting room

This waiting room of my life

is empty 

sometimes I imagine myself 

in another,

less awkward

one

But

loneliness does that-

allows one to imagine the 

impossible.

Silence before the storm, as

they say,

You walked in

and the song I was singing along to

stopped.

Mein Schatz 

you wanted happiness

so molded myself into your smile

Mein Liebling

you wanted adventure 

so I spread myself out

Mein Held

you wanted to be the sun

so I learnt to cope with the burn

You

Wanted

Waiting room after waiting room 

our story passes by

in a blur

Of happy moments 

until that adieu

Slipping now on the rocks 

we built

I find myself waiting again

choosing

this time,

seeing in the way that you stare

that you still care

Ignoring 

this crime, 

and 

choosing 

the waiting room of

my

life

Worth

Your worth
can’t be scrawled out
on these few lines
In fact
your worth
(begging to have its shout)
can barely be contained

Your worth
(hardly restrained)
can be seen written on the
hearts of
all those who have met
you
all those who have known
you
all those who have understood
you.

Your worth,
worthless
when
you
shy
from
it.

It matters to me

You stumble around from this side to that. Laughing, you throw back your head until you’re quiet and left smiling at the sun. You run and you scream. There are jitters of excitement all around while you begin to talk of the many plans you have away from this place. This place with its skies so blue and its bushveld  still whispering the stories of old when the wind brushes by. This place where the crickets, raucous toads, police sirens, mosquitoes and helicopters all create a lullaby that sends you to sleep. This place is where one man will rob you but his brother will offer out his hand in friendship. You talk of leaving this place. This purple paradise when the weather is right. You talk of leaving. Leaving to a place unexplored by me. A place where the rhythm of your home will be lost to the swoosh, click, slide and mindless chatter of an uncultured world. Leaving your family, friends, park, spaza, veld and the place you call home. Home. Here, that home wraps around your heart with its acacia thorns puncturing it and never yielding its grip. The wild bushveld grows on your chest and right down your arms reminding you of where you belong and fit in. The view you get from the high hill of Fort Klapperkop is ingrained in your mind and you can scarcely let it go. The cattle, springbok, zebra, giraffe, elephant and maybe even the mighty lion will not let you leave for long. They will call you home and like the marimba your heart will beat  and that throb will dance you home. You talk of leaving this place. You talk of leaving. You. You, with those eyes that fit into the sky where stars should be, will leave and find a place where the stars dare not shine shine for you. You will throw back your head and smile at the sun and say “Here, there? It’s all under the same sun. It doesn’t matter!”

It matters to me

It matters to me as this is my land, my sun and my home.