#129 ~ Despair

I fervently believed there was power in the written word

When the pen scratched a sign that translated, after being deciphered, into an intelligible idea

Communicating across the vast oceans of time, culture, between individuals

Those that have treaded these streets, and may fly over these roofs.

Yet criticism came and with it academics

Destroying the structure, implementing their own concerns and ideas.

Suddenly it became a vacuous sign, to be raped, impregnated with our own designs

Ideas, beliefs, reinterpreting, translating

Until language became an arbitrary concept, wholly undefined.

The stench of black coffee, the dent in cushioned sofas,

the hail of rain stroking the window-pane

And the elucidation that none of it exists.

I despair.

I despair

I believed there was something more

When I found myself in the writings of Austen, Ba and Crashaw

when Shange’s spoken word brought me to a new rainbow

and Atta gave  voice to a city that existed in the realm

Of something I yearned for.

I believe there is power in the written word. I believe it is more

Where did your passion go?

When did I turn into such a bore?

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