Come marvel at my dance sequence
Come see me move and be witness
Be not amazed though to see no groove
Dancing emotions have no motions to move....
I am dancing in distress to buttress stress
I have poverty of desired buttons to press
Corruption cripples my motivation to move
I am seeking ways for my rhythm to improve
When I get the rhythm I shall beg steal and borrow
Or beg to borrow before I steal into my burrow
Honesty like thirst punishes the throat of the parched
With dishonesty the bad are assured of roofs thatched
My dance is now a trance as rhythm escapes my style
My motions are as right as a winter roof with missing tile
I am not chasing the winning prize of honour or integrity
Mine is a mining mode not to mend but corrupt in parity
I fear the wrath of the Lord but hear hunger pangs louder
Those that ride the groovy gravy train are colder and bolder
Honesty like brakes oppose motion and defeats progress
Forces of evil and powers of comfort are always in congress
My soul is free and my spirit pure but my vault is empty
My morals are strong but guarded by a weakened sentry
For as goodness chooses my bosom as its grand abode
Material life plays only sorry tunes that misery forebode
My house of hope and honour has a weakened foundation
Vocal cords that sung sweet melodies are in pathetic condition
I have gained tonnes of torment and lost my tones for parody
My previous floods of confidence are themselves sheer comedy
I am the serpent that goads you to trouble and misfortune
Trust me at your peril for there is no similar print of fortune
I am a representative of tentative evil sprouting from good
I am a dispirited devil son of good masquerading with a hood.
My story is a fake furrow dug in the wetness of former dry land
As true as a fake is real for it is forked out of beings of same brand
My cry is to decry corruption for some authority to issue a decree
That the corrupt must be made to burn in the fires of their final degree.
By Andrew Onalenna Sesinyi
March 10, 2012.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
VOICELESS....
Its the new year with the yeast that ferments it into old
The sights, sounds and scenes of similar years stay bold
Making mild the mood of merriment reminiscent of malt
For the year 2012 is brewed in cauldrons that curse salt
My hope for new is but a forlorn hope as the new brew boils
All is old in the new and so are the sinews that drive my toils
Its not the boredom that bears these notes but the dullness of same
Life rolls and rile even the meek to brew wildness even among the tame
Same is similar to insipid dishes of recipes written by wrathful writers
It dampens even the daunting doom as would a requiem to bull fighters
That stillness of time and tide is an untold tale of turpitude in decline
Its a silence of tuneless songs unsung by composers driven into decline
Ive wishes of a billion spikes pointed piercingly at the fabric of the undone
Pins and pincers in readiness to dig into the tapestry and order it redone
Yet Im stuck in the mud and puddles of ponds watered by rains of ineptitude
My vocal cords are cobbled and coddled in haphazard hides of in-exactitude
For the voice of protest has petered out drowned by derelict dams of inertia
Expression outdone by repression my tone meanders as if in a shrub of acacia
Yes, ponder asunder all arms akimbo to wonder what this grief is a song of
Yet you would not yawn in boredom if you deciphered the pain of the pay off
Its about what I do not to do and what I do not do when I ought to do that does it
The paradox of pay and performance amid poverty of paths that bear produce
The irony of unstructured structures and disorganized guided tours of toil
Where no input mothers output and fires of the hearth have pots of amber to boil
By Andrew Sesinyi
Timeless and dateless for a purpose...
The sights, sounds and scenes of similar years stay bold
Making mild the mood of merriment reminiscent of malt
For the year 2012 is brewed in cauldrons that curse salt
My hope for new is but a forlorn hope as the new brew boils
All is old in the new and so are the sinews that drive my toils
Its not the boredom that bears these notes but the dullness of same
Life rolls and rile even the meek to brew wildness even among the tame
Same is similar to insipid dishes of recipes written by wrathful writers
It dampens even the daunting doom as would a requiem to bull fighters
That stillness of time and tide is an untold tale of turpitude in decline
Its a silence of tuneless songs unsung by composers driven into decline
Ive wishes of a billion spikes pointed piercingly at the fabric of the undone
Pins and pincers in readiness to dig into the tapestry and order it redone
Yet Im stuck in the mud and puddles of ponds watered by rains of ineptitude
My vocal cords are cobbled and coddled in haphazard hides of in-exactitude
For the voice of protest has petered out drowned by derelict dams of inertia
Expression outdone by repression my tone meanders as if in a shrub of acacia
Yes, ponder asunder all arms akimbo to wonder what this grief is a song of
Yet you would not yawn in boredom if you deciphered the pain of the pay off
Its about what I do not to do and what I do not do when I ought to do that does it
The paradox of pay and performance amid poverty of paths that bear produce
The irony of unstructured structures and disorganized guided tours of toil
Where no input mothers output and fires of the hearth have pots of amber to boil
By Andrew Sesinyi
Timeless and dateless for a purpose...
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