GEORGEViLLE

By day, the sharp streaks of scorching sun deeply slice through our skins-but not our souls folks hiss and slither side by side Yet glide after stride,blow after hug Sinner stands apart from saint, black flows sharp  from white and the righteous condemn and curse the damned With the long awaited relieving cover of dusk, the comfortable blanket of night spreads in its path an odd honest spell of lycanthropy A metamorphosis of white and black into familiar  cocktails of grey We juggle and vanish our halos for fitting crowns of thorns At that holy moment, there is no need to decant For oil and water seep separately no more George W Kiwanuka @Georgewkiwanuka

The fear of death is obstructively futile That cold numb night as you lay bleeding in the ICU, gasping for breath Feeling lighter and lighter - almost floating As the monitor beeps, you see a faint image of your kinsfolk Staring, embracing – hugging tightly In the absence of the proverbial gentle breeze, Their sobs and wails concern you not For its pointless to brood over what might have been You ponder about your pilot to the ‘other side’ Is it Walumbe [1] who has wrung the life out of you? Or a sword bearing angel of death atop a dark horse Do you traverse a tunnel at whose end a light awaits? Or stride into an initiation fete with ancestors to await appeasement as an ancestral spirit Honoured with spilled drinks [2] and consulted by descendants for counsel Have you earned the right to eternal rest? Or will you unhappily roam and haunt the earth settling old scores? Occasionally creeping from your dark grave to Venture onto streets as a sheep