Fourlinegraphia

  Bathing Days on the Congo River ~:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::~ Along the mighty Congo's winding breast, Where giant baobabs stood at rest, There lay a broken bathing ghat, worn by years, A keeper of laughter, dreams, and tears. !!~!! The river flowed like an old African griot's song, Carrying the village's soul along. Men and women gathered by its side, Washing clothes with rhythm and pride. !!~!! The pounding of cloth upon weathered stone Blended with voices in a timeless tone. News, stories, jokes, and village lore Flowed as freely as the river's roar. !!~!! Then came the rafts of massive timber, Bound from giant forest giants' limbs. Engines growling like distant lions at night, They drifted slowly through the morning light. !!~!! Those floating timber towns rolled by, A travelling village beneath the sky. Families cooked, children played and ran, Life unfolding upon wood and water as one. !!~!! Beneath those moving giants' shade, Women i...

  I rose from failure's thousand broken hands, A dream pursued through years of patient plans. Before my birth, countless attempts had died, Yet from their ashes came the light inside. **** Is that not how a human life begins? Built from old hopes, defeats, and silent wins? A child arrives, yet hidden in that breath Are generations wrestling life and death. **** A slender filament became my heart, A fragile thread assigned a brilliant part. Argon filled my lungs with unseen grace, And living current moved through all my space. **** What is the current flowing through your soul? What unseen force compels your journey's goal? Who placed the spark within your fragile frame, And taught your darkness how to kindle flame? **** For years I stood where village pathways turned, And city avenues with movement burned. I lit the roads where weary travelers passed, Each step uncertain, none designed to last. **** Like people walking through the years of time, Climbing through joy and stumbl...

  "I have millions of reasons to die" A poet once wrote,  in our case, that feels painfully true. *** I have a Septillion reasons now to die. The ledger of despair runs long and dark. Each failure feeds a solitary spark, While time adds fuel and never asks me why. *** And fate, that merciless and silent king,  pours oil upon the embers of regret;  its unseen hands unweave the golden hours,  yet leave the deepest wounds unpaid as debt. *** My mind records the tally of its scars, And counts the weight of every fallen stone. It measures distances to vanished stars, Convinced that all this burden is its own. *** A mountain settles heavily and deep, An ocean pulls against my weary feet. The sleepless hours deny the gift of sleep, And make each echo sound like grim defeat. *** The storm demands surrender from my soul; It fills the sky and blots away the sun. Pain gathers every wound into one whole, And says the fight is lost before begun. *** Yet life is not a game of...

I once believed the crowd was home, that praise could fill the empty space. I chased the light where bright names shone, and measured worth by my own fame. *** I loved the sound of strangers' cheers, the warmth that came from being seen. For a while it softened hidden fears, and painted ordinary days with dreams. *** I rose like a bird upon the wind, certain the sky would always stay. The world seemed open at my feet, and every door appeared unlocked. *** I mistook attention for belonging, and applause for something I had earned. I thought the light would always find me, and never wondered how it turned. *** One day the noise began to fade. The voices grew a little thin. The doors that once stood open wide slowly forgot to let me in. *** I searched for what I used to be inside the mirrors of the crowd. But all I found was loneliness beneath the mask I wore with pride. *** The fall was not a single step. It came like evening after light. A gradual dimming of the world, a longer and ...

  I walk through fields where glowing screens bear gold, As honey flowers opening at dusk. Their amber petals shimmer in my eyes, And call my name with sweet electric light. Around their blooms the restless thousands drift, Like bees enchanted by a scented wind. They gather close to taste the golden dew, Then rise and leave when newer flowers bloom. I drink the praise that gathers on the bloom, And wear the crown of momentary spring. The world appears as bright as morning glass, Reflecting dreams in every passing face. For fame can feel like love when it arrives. It speaks in numbers, whispers, hearts, and praise. It wraps itself around our wounded lives, And warms the lonely corners of our days. We mine the light for such a fleeting bloom, And shovel deep through layers of the screen, Only to find within that glowing room The quiet isolation of the machine. We spend our lives digging for a prize To hold aloft before the shouting crowd, Blinding with dust our own searching eyes, Wh...

  I wander through the rain-washed streets of city a half-starved poet carrying a sky full of unwritten songs. My pockets hold nothing but crumpled pages, yet within them sleep entire worlds. The city rushes past me. Men in pressed suits discuss success, their voices shining brighter than their hearts. Publishers weigh words against profit, friends measure worth by position and wealth, and even love is auctioned to the highest bidder. I offer them my poetry. They ask who has praised it. I offer them my soul. They ask what it is worth. So I walk alone. At tea stalls, railway platforms, crowded markets, I watch people worship names instead of truth, statues instead of living hearts, appearances instead of humanity. The world loves mirrors. I carry windows. Yet among those whom society calls fallen, I discover compassion. A nightingale abandoned by respectability reads my verses as if they were sacred scripture. She sees not my torn shirt, nor the dust upon my feet, but the fire I hid...

He walked with torn dreams on his shoulders, A poet beneath a merciless sky. His words were richer than kingdoms, Yet no one stopped to ask him why. The merchants traded praise for profit, The scholars bowed before a name; Truth stood hungry at their doorstep, While falsehood dined in halls of fame. His verses flowed like living rivers, But the world preferred a gilded lie. They saw his poverty and weakness, Not the stars burning in his eye. A night woman cast aside by society Found beauty where others found none; She heard the ache within his silence, And loved the man he had become. The preachers spoke of virtue loudly, The patriots sang their noble song; Yet behind their masks of honor Lived the greed they hid so long. They crowned him only when he vanished, When death had wrapped him in its light; For living souls are often ignored, While ghosts are praised as pure and bright. But the poet would not sell his conscience, Nor bend his heart to fashion's call. He chose the road of...