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The Yard

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There was a yard and in the middle of the yard was a man, and around the man was a crowd and the crowd sat under the shimmering of cool moonlight, and they listened and they were happy. His stories were the colours that filled the air with magic, mystic and wonder. The drums beat silently providing rhythm. This was freedom. He was the story teller some say that he transformed day into night so that his stories could traverse into dreams.

The prison was cold, evasive and invasive, very few knew why there were there, but they were there. The story teller however, was said to have been brought there by Time itself.

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The nature of the stories were of an enigma, and when the stories were told, each prisoner saw an image particular to his state of mind, most became over joyed, while the Few, those insidious few were thrown into rage.

The night was cold, shadows crept in the ominous dark.  The Few had connived and convoluted in the sheath of darkness they cut off the tongue of the story teller, hoping that the stories would end. He shed one tear in the darkness, not because of the pain, but because of the shade of their hearts.

The next day, there was a yard and in the middle of the yard was a man, and around the man was a crowd. He was telling stories and this time the crowd had swelled. He was using his facial expressions and his hands, the air was his canvas, and reality was his picture. The crowd gazed in awe at the new intelligible vision that they perceived, this was more powerful than the last for it was without the corruption of words.

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The Few plotted in secret.

That night they cut of the story tellers hands and feet and immolated him. He shed two tears.

On the third day, there was a tree in the middle of the yard, and next to the tree was the man and around the man and the tree was a crowd. The crowd was still, for they were in enraptured in bliss, now the story teller created worlds of wonder in their hearts.  The Few were filled with horror as the worlds grew out of their minds and into the real. Before that night, the storyteller gave the crowd a piece of his clothing and his hair and his tears which he instructed them to carry with them at all times.

That night the Few murdered the story teller and burned his remains in secret so as not to start a rebellion.

On this day there was a crowd in the yard, the white rays of the sun scattered into shards of kaleidoscopic brilliance they breathed the free air, the Few were submerged in the collective yet specific powers of the crowd, for each of them had become a story teller, each according to his own intelligibility, weaving the magic of light, genius and magic on the walls of the prison for it could hold them no longer.

There was a yard and in the middle of the yard was the world and the world listened and the world…

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POEMS

Societal Blindfold

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I did not want to be like them.
I always believed they were to blame.
I only saw what the society defined,
“Women are a problem” yet, I am a woman also.
I believed every word society uttered to me.


Years passed and I grew up with my own truth,
Rather the truth presented to me.
Growing up to the societal good and bad definitions.
Little did I know,
It was never the reality.

I glanced at my own mother crying her life out.
Still, I blamed her and saw a wicked one who
Could not make him stay.
“Mama, you failed us,” only if I knew.
I did not want to be her.
I did not want to be them.

I perceived marriage as a trophy and gold medal of life.
Believed every word my society taught me as a woman.
I focused more on finding the right man.

I snubbed my dreams, potentials, and talents.
Ask me why?
All because I did not want to be them.
 Who is them?
Them single mothers.
They were evil according to my learned descriptions.
Little did I know.

I allowed years to slide.
My dreams called, I closed my ears.
“Women are nothing.”
Only to realize, all was a
Societal Blindfold.

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By SiCie.

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POEMS

A penurious life.

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Admiring the mouth-watering menu,

My throat craving for a cold beer.

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Searching my pockets,

A budget for a loaf of bread is the reality.

I then understand why,

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A penurious life.

By Trevor Virima

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POEMS

Gratifying its way.

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Sunday full of its luxuriate spirit,

Carrying the drowsiness of Monday to a

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Tuesday as it brings the burden of chores.

Wednesday giving light to a thirsty Thursday as we prattle about

Friday becoming a Zip line to an

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Entertaining Saturday.

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