Hours turned into minutes
as if time was ours
As our words
spilled out
in bouts
of
ascending gradation
in an intoxication
that held
an infinity of potential
ramifications.
that held,
before they descended,
into a combination of vexations
and unfulfilled expectation.
© Hudson Biko
Photograph: Nicole Mason
Their
pupils
converged
like pupils in rooms
waiting
for
classes.
Hiding
behind
fences
they called eyelashes
they
scattered
matches
Prepared to burn
in sojourns
before
they were extinguished.
Living those matches
burned and converged
in its remains
© Hudson Biko
In my chase after it,
I found myself standing on top of corrugated iron.
It was
loosely placed
across gaps of space
But
I didn’t know that.
Leaving me,
watching it collapse
into swamps of green and brown
As it
pulled me down with it,
where sounds
drowned
into desperation
And breaths
digressed
into scarcity
Leaving me,
in that gap of space
Trembling.
© Hudson Biko
It streamed steadily
from sources we call chambers
to mouths we call tips.
It
ingrained itself
on an untouched canvas
Then
morphed
into a succession
of black lines
and black hearts
Lines piercing
Hearts beating
It’s darkness
left
behind
Then
recreated
from sources we call chambers
Before slowly fading
Again.
©
You could feel the anticipation
simmering in a pot of
silence.
Each glance
convinced by their
own conviction
Each glance
transfixed on their actions,
each heavy with expectation
Expectations
that were eventually
unfulfilled.
Leaving me,
applauding,
as my young heart
was slowly shattered,
scattered
then
left in own tatters
to rebuild itself.
The fractions
of consolation
and compassion
inconsequential
as anticipation simultaneously
morphed into a combination
of aggravation
and desolation.
Because my young heart
didn’t simmer in anticipation
and expectation,
it was suffocated by it
©
hudson biko 