And They Call It Freedom? Poem by Anele Potelwa (Unpublished)

Its freedom with no democracy,
the dome that brackets a hard blowing storm,
that hard it blows the preserved lineage of Rome,
from which the scotch of ill diligence to the pofaced,
is in a podium of democracy with much ecstasy,
but the truth dribbles and departs with no prophecy,
Yes! The poetics of choice confused with politics,
were young minds are ruled with much and less hollistics,
with a rise it shows lines,
with a shine exposes signs,

this is for the name freedom,
that fled too much waves of memories with pain,
that much suffering of tears droping from the rain,
for all moments the comment was void,
but the blood shed was never to avoid,
i guess pride derseves the name of land,
whose such the gigantic piles are built with sand,
in this dome everyone is free with captivity,
yet a hybrid instrument is filled with much solidarity,

i call it freedom with no democracy,
with minds whose conspiracy is to rebuild,
but deprived from a heart whose reluctancy is to rebuke,
political leaders stood, i was fooled.