Poetry
Feel
A Piece By: Siona
She is seated at the centre of herself
while time rots at her feet.
The clocks melt, you’d think she is careless,
Could it be grief?
Grief, the giant that often has its own mathematics?
Flowers bloom from wreckage
like the body refusing to surrender.
The sky watches her back,
two enormous eyes swollen with knowing,
the curse of women who notice everything.
Butterflies drift through the storm
like fragile thoughts surviving impact.
And there, beyond the noise,
a narrow blade of light:
It could be happiness,
Or maybe peace,
but it definitely is persistence.
The world does not ask,
“Is she well?”
It asks,
“How much can one person carry
before survival becomes an art form?”
By: Inkazi Editorial
What happens when the chemicals wear thin,
And unnatural light leaves tender faces burned?
When we forget that beauty’s deep within,
And unlearn lessons that our mothers learned?
Our skins grow weary, thin, and swift to break,
Stripped of the native strength that kept us whole,
Chasing a ghost for modern fashion’s sake,
While losing touch with the ancestral soul.
By: Siona
Before I tell you God’s name,
I will teach you
the language of rain.
How the earth sighs
before it drinks….
By: Siona
There are many women living inside me.
One folds laundry with soft hands
and dreams of sunlight on clean floors.
One wants to disappear into forests,
become moss, become silence,
become untouched by expectation.
By: Siona
It’s nuts, I know.
Well, the story I’m about to tell.
It’s closer, maybe, to nuts. Like the knucklehead kind…
