Bunguswa Writes.

                                   Chilled by the still morning,            unmoved,           the weather wàs sad-                  to the untamed            came the reverbration so famed.         I thought it was chilly,      to wear a jacket so warm-   to cover a borny frame,  weightless!      But the  jacket was penetrative;    cold caught my lungs chilling  me to contraction,     to suffocation,       albeight the heavy armour.            Now the sun might rise,        so the jacket I'll get off;          but I'm shrunk-                 ...

                It could have been enjoyed,         not in malice-      but with joy undelayed.      From my arm it should have slid,        before a gulp I took,           from the poisoned chalice.            Had I been a monk,       of the ancient Greece-     I'd have prayed before; to pacify the turbulent sea.  Will they mourn?     Will they?       Will they laugh and scorn?         The ignorance will be interred,      may the truth never be impugned,    for the past to shield the legacy.       Let the good be undecampaigned;          for my sorjourn to many was an efficacy.             Should this be the end;     ...

I've laughed, smiled and cried.       Yes! For the unseen-           for the imagined.     I've penned in red, I've oft° implored my mind to think- beyond memories that hold, truths and lies once lived. I've once penned and shredded the mind        to pieces of their kind;   the unheard,    the untold-       the good, bad and ugly. Amid the unrelenting drizzle;   rhythmic with the dancing pen,    I reminisce.     I echo the memory-       when smiles warmed frozen hearts. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

If I should never see you, like a rose that blooms at night; to wither when time's not right, then, cleanse my tears with the morning dew. Your glamour I've seen in the dawn dream; a dream that dissolutions the day, and I pray, if for my sins I've to pay, let me see the rose blossom. To a beautiful hedge you're curved, dear Rose- amid cataracts for mine sun never rise, welcoming a new dawn so frazzled. Dear rose that thrives in the night, Witness my heart's toughest fight. ©Bunguswa Brian™

I've seen them cry, wail and pry- but where do their tears go, for the happiness they forego? Behind sullen eyes manifests grief- of hearts ladden with sadness not so brief. And the cry emerges again, surging with bitterness and pain. Where do men's tears fall? Behind hilltops like mock rainfall? Or behind their eyes, like melted ice? I search my mind, to understan a mystery of its kind; men's tears- a manifestation of great fears. They always will cry, to soften hearts cold and dry; of the tender feelings- oft° absent in life's happenings. To oblivion they've been consigned, pittied by those never concerned. They wail in silent lamentation; with hearts engulfed in deformation, and the repurcasions are tragic- if embers of love were once intrinsic. ©Bunguswa Brian™

The skeleton in my closet's shrunk. I've added a pound of flesh; I've grown an appetite greater, so you can tone up the lashing- of a tongue that excites my anguish. I've added a pound of flesh, from the oasis of your sainthood. Pardon I if I've left you a skeleton, I crave not for the snow or white cotton- but for you to have a test, for the skeleton in your closet. I've grown an appetite greater; my weight's now better, mightier to be blown- by the wind that impedes my muse. ©Bunguswa Brian ™

The epitaph epitomised epic life lived, his demice marking end of an epoch. The era was marked, with no good but bad abound. No one mourned, for the epitaph spoke. The epitaph was well-penned; right and left, on the tombstone it stilled- solid. A rose it was, but thorny were interred memories- Gone. We wished not for the after-thoughts, the good, the bad, the ugly. The torment that engulfed tormented hearts, covered in red earth,  we extirpated the unwanted. Now we might sigh, not with relief, nor grief- but with an affirmation its a past; like time, that tick tacks, going-not returning. ©Bunguswa Brian™

If I had a right to life; I'd unbuilt myself- to rabbles irreparable, exterpating pain that's unbearable. I'd feel no more pain, nor succumb to destruction again. Uprooting the chaff I would; to let the unwanted off. Dear God, take me away as this life on a balance sway, let me survive not for others' fun- to giggle at me with disguised frowns. ©Brian Bunguswa™

Of the past I admire but it isn't nostalgia, for today I'm not proud I forgot this culture. Look at me, unpredictable with no vision for the future, where is the culture that adorned my past with stature? Maybe thrown to the gutters, irretreavable; in shumbles and tatters. Today I make a turn not so good but bold, to attach my name to a stronghold- where men and women treasure their roots as gold, Whereas mine litters the goldmines already sold. To my ancestors I shall return, even though they exist not, my heritage I'll earn. I'll have secured my posterity when I'll be gone; to avade a cultural crisis that's unknown. Listen to my second name that's unheard of, in it engulfed is grandpa's epitaph. From today I'll carry grandpa's name in admiration, maybe in my character and image we shared an imagination- fulfilling the mystery of reincarnation, at a time this thought was unheard of in our generation. ©Bunguswa Brian™.

I've read books with pages unending; trudged on this route with vast miles unwinding, I've looked at the blue sky, often beyond my eyes seeing- and I know how frosty the beautiful ocean is, at times impossible of swimming. But I forget not the journey that's broken my bark, albeit the cardinal rule of never looking back. I've witnessed rain bless my desert mind I know the storm that's once flooded my soul without limits abound. Detrimental has been my salty flow, even to the blind; for an ulcer begs not for a lemon drop even for a second. Listen as I recount my heart and mind's rhythm, Conflicted, dancing to life's destructive whim. I leak the wounds and curse the scars, from seasons I've shed tears that blurs beckoning scorn from those who never cares, of the blinding pain of the two rivers. They're always salty, catastrophic in their abundance to a journey already faulty. I look not beyond my eyes, over this cold sea that warm air flies...