DIARY OF A HANGING SLAVE

Looking at the palm of my chocolate,
Coated dish, panned hands
Moving in transit with blood view of days gone by.

Years, times and moments flash before my eyes
Like the writing on his palm
Nature loans her shroud of dark covering
As his life, now it seems it concluding

Secrets, shared memories of his life he owned.
Filled with stones untoled.
On his lips are tales of his past
Some he wishes to air, others to the grave he takes
The better of the two extreme he had
A tale of penury, blood, war, hatred and strife of joy, gain, laughter and love

I was and i am a slave
Not brought by my colour, skin or type
But a slave and a prisoner of my own mind

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