Fake Boots.... Poem by Merlin Mwaura

The morning is as beautiful as ever,
fellow men, women,
boys and girls,
rising to it's delight.
Moms are making breakfirst,
dads making their ties.
And after some sumptuous deal,
with folk 'n' spoon,
everyone wants to leave
to their occasioned or routine...
to their duties.

On come the boots,
out go the boots.
This fake boots,
going to places,
that need no roots.

The hot sun,
baking bricks,
boilling streams...
passed by the unkeen eye.
Watchin' as the pretenders carry on,
with their treasured trades.
Committed or convicted,
they carry on.
Fancied by better passions
but keep carrying on.
they are subject,
they are conformed.

Performances in their trendy,
boastful and speechy tend...
Lying 'n' prying,
into mine and other's
of a similar and often pass,
that this is living life...

On come the boots,
out go the boots.
This fake boots,
going to places,
that need no roots.

Surely we can do honesty,
isn't it the best policy.
To love when it's love,
To hate when it's hate.
To cry when it's pain,
To laugh when it's lame,
To say,
That humor has no gain.

Every one, almost anyone,
lives for gain.
Partitioning of passion,
cold with jealousy,
hot with vanity,
of anger,
of envy,
of all that is empty.
Lost to perceptions
of perfection.
Gone...gone for good,
to fantasy and from reality.

On come the boots,
out go the boots.
This fake boots,
going to places,
that need no roots.

We all woke,
early to a beautiful morning,
our moms made breakfirst,
our dads made their ties.
After some sumptuous deal,
with folk 'n spoon,
we want to leave.
But not without our boots,
our own, very fake boots.
why?
what was yesterday is still,
what will today.
Of pain,
Of prying,
Of lying,
Of dying, slowly
to some insignificant me,
some insignificant you,
insignificant all.

Off with the fake boots,
our feet touch the ground.
Down to earth and to our roots,
stay in there lay,
a soul,
a truth.
A somewhat,
a maybe,
a definate,
significant...

YOU.