SCARS

The terror of a nightmare

Sweat on one’s forehead

Shakes through the spine

Afraid to rise or go back

To sleep.

Terror for the artist

Rattles his soul

Profoundly

Great works of art with

An after shake-guide

The artist’s hand

That holds the tools for

His art.

There are deep terrors

In every heart buried

Like memorial kernels

Deep down

Just like fynbos-seeds

Buried by ants to survive

Annual bushfires

Come back to new life

Again.

The terror followed

By fresh life

Africa of the South

The poet still shaken

By memories of forceful

Removal of his art and his

Library: 1200 books.

A nightmare of the meanest

Kind

As it cut his deepest wound

Into his artist’s innermost

Scars that never heal.

SCARS.SRACS

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’20

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