Behind Slabs Poem by Wilson Tinotenda Waison

Behind Slabs



All I distinct is a vile panorama
Behind slabs, then locked for virtuous
And that hope to have been thwarted
Yet I grow grey hair with each daybreak
Surviving in this imaginary hamlet.

Beneath the iron forged panel
I recognize the scriber and a tabloid
To reach for these is the only craving
As I forecast all mine thoughts, scribed
In black and white. Unfolding the lit*

The lit that lies underneath the wits
To rebut this rinsed civilization that
Replete me behind slabs and the
So called globalization whom deplete
My ethics, slayers of my decency.

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Wilson Tinotenda Waison

St. Mary's clinic, Chitungwiza Harare Zimbabwe
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