Miss me but let me go.

-

When a day starts without me
Miss me but let me go

When I come to the end of the road
And the sun sets for me
Don't roam in my room
Why wail for a soul set free

Miss me but not too long
With your heads covered in low,
You shall not do
Remember the love we shared
Writing poetry and inspirations
Pondering on the philosophy of life's and times
That joy we shared
Miss me but let me go

For this is a journey we must all take
And each alone
A road home
As a part of the bigger plan

So when your heart become full,
With tears,
Turn to the chapters where happiness was written upon our faces.
Embrace those around
And sing to psalms of praise

It was a purposed event.
In his greatness, the maker of everything.
Miss me but let me go.
Now I watch the sun resign in the horizon
Night drags by,
As the moon's languid eye opens mildly.
I have to content with crickets incessantly hissing,
To the distant scare of frogs.
I watch the rafters in utter loneliness,
I roll and turn to the embrace of nothingness.
You are gone,
Easy as you came.
I wish you'd never have come.
© Bunguswa Wangila


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

For Echoes of war

-
Image
They came with boots louder than our drums, thinking silence could be stitched into our tongues. But our voices are wild rivers, and even when caged, water finds a crack. The script inked in defiance still breathes. We are not children scared of shadows— we are the shadow that grows teeth. They cuffed the playwright, not the pen, but a pen is never alone—it births storms. We watched them guard rehearsal rooms like gold vaults, forgetting memory lives in the marrow. The lines we learned in whispers still bloom in our mouths. You cannot handcuff a heartbeat. You cannot police the pulse of truth. Our stage is not theirs to gate. Each blocked entrance is a call to another door. What they ban becomes sacred. Every denied rehearsal is a revolution rehearsed in soul. They fear what the girls have become—mirrors. We reflect the rot, the rage, the reckoning. We are what they want erased. Echoes of war do not fade, they ferment. Every silence they force feeds the fire. This is not a ...
Read more

Blood on the badge.

-
Image
A son of soil, voice of the street, Dragged from dawn into death’s deceit— Albert Ojwang, the name they silenced, Truth-teller caged in state's defiance. He held no gun, just words like fire, Scorching lies dressed in empire's attire, Yet cuffs clanged louder than his pen, And silence fell on brave young men. From Homa Bay's breeze to Nairobi's rot, They drove his body, soul forgot— No justice in that steel-tomb ride, Just sirens screaming truth had died. The badge was blood, the law was fear, He vanished into thin State air. No charge, no crime—just dared to speak, Now he lies cold for being meek. We ask you , Mr. President , look: How many more beneath your book? Does power swell when voices die? Do mothers' tears not make you cry? A father's hands built stone from dust, Dreams carved for sons in silent trust— Now all he holds is grief and rage, A coffin sealing youth and age. Kenya bleeds beneath your chair, And we will shout—we still dare! This l...
Read more

I was the shelter, not the storm.

-
Image
She left like a match dropped in dry season, and called the fire “my temper.” Now her timeline blooms with thorns she names “my wounds,” each caption a soft lie dressed in lilies. I read them like weather reports of a storm I survived, wondering how the lightning learned my name, and why the rain keeps apologizing. I was the clay cup that held her thirst, yet she says I was the crack. She gathers sympathy like beads for a rosary of regrets, counting my flaws as prayers. But I remember the nights she borrowed my sunrise, then returned only the shadows, and said darkness was my design. Her posts are mirrors she polishes with blame, reflecting a man she never met. I am a river she crossed on her own reflection, then claimed the water drowned her. The world drinks her version like sweetened tea, while my truth sits, unsipped, cooling beside the memory of her hands. Let her rewrite the sky if it gives her peace, I have already learned the language of clouds. Pain is an ink that ...
Read more