kuvunjika kwa koleo sio mwisho wa uhunzi

“the breaking of the tongs
isn’t the end of the forging”

he found it late and started
thinking of himself a painted
god and did it at a whirling
pace and ate his first rejections
and that made him strong

and he went about in flush
with power of it painted
gods don’t fear they roar
and live their secret songs
and publish and he ate
his first deserved tearing-downs
and that made him strong

and as he roared he drank
and fled but at his best was still
a stoned and smearing painted
god and sent off applications
to learned places he could work
the craft not carry its enormous
weight alone he ate rejections
and that made him strong

and he did it then with fire
licking at his painted guts
white and wipping arcing fires
backlit in his frantic eyes
and then the rains arrived
and then they stopped
and something soft and spent
and aimless curled up
inside and didn’t do it
anymore and didn’t want
the pity for the aching loss
for the purpose he had carried
then he carried still inside
alone as ever from the first
alone with all the scalding
flames the searing light
he felt it still in darkened
places hiding lost as ever
same as ever but he knew
that once and who can say
this once he roared and shook
his heavens rattled chaos once
he was a burning painted god

and washed of paint he looked at last
clean and blinking from himself
and in the darkness ate the truth
and it made him strong.

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