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Poem Of The Week: Diary Of A Hanging Slave

Years, times and moments.
Flash before his eyes.
Things not understood.
Like the writings on his palm.
Nature loans her shroud of dark covering.
As his life, now it seems, it’s concluding.
On his lips are tales of time past.

Credit: diggerfortruth.wordpress.com

Years, times and moments

Flash before his eyes

Things not understood

Like the writings on his palm

Nature loans her shroud of dark covering

As his life, now it seems, it’s concluding

On his lips are tales of time past

Secrets, shared memories of a life he owned

Filled with stories untold

Some he wishes to air, others to the grave he takes

A tale of penury, blood, war, hatred and strife

Of joy, gain, laughter and love

The better of two extreame he had

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

Hanging on the edge of my existense

Far but close the moment of clearity

Liberation, freedom a state of mind

Wondering, why? Still a crying free man.

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