March 21, 1960 – Sharpeville, South Africa.
they shot you. in the back.
the oppressors lead tearing into muscled flesh. the flesh of africa.
they massacred you. in sharpeville, in soweto.
today we remember you. we salute you, our valiant compatriots.
but,
do we honour you … … …
your skin, burnished by the african copper sun,
your eyes, deep as the lake where secrets lie,
you, your whole being entire, dazzling my unseeing look, embers stoked by your indomitable fire … … …
discerning shapelessness, shadows pirouette, etching a kaleidoscope of colour … you see, I should have gazed more into your eyes, placid pools of clarity, yet now forever late, sewed eyes shut, blinded by regret, by tumultuous fate …
words like pyroclastic flow, scalding, incinerating emotions, effortlessly slithering through this life, ravaging the peace, the pain, leaving burnt ashes of fried neurons and scorched dendrites,
navigating between the lava, stepping on air, untethered, bonded to now, this furnace of bliss, emptiness, love, desolation, streaming past, in an effortless pyroclastic flow … …
'illusory art' by Maya
waking up to emptiness, the synapses not firing, the gloom, the desolation, the feeling of worthlessness, all this brings me down,
and still, and yet, I’m no sad sack, am I,
no! I don’t want to feel this way.
I want the pain and emptiness to scurry away, leaving me to live,
just live, in peace,
day after gruelling day …
'illusory art' by Maya
Scribbled Verse 