In The Catacoombs Of My Soul Poem by Sarah Mkhonza

The deep of the depth,
is truly deep. It rises
and falls in the drip.
These catacoombs of my
soul. Skeletons small
with wide sockets where
the cartilage was.

Once I knew whose
it was. Yet it lies
and makes room for
another.

Once there was room
for clutter like this.
Now my soul longs
for a clearing. The
dump of the dead
rises in protest
as they pray I
leave them alone.

For to go deep down
to the depths is a
journey I travel on
empty gas tanks for
my mind is always
on its own forward
march.

Who lives in the
catacoombs of
their soul. Where
the trail is always wet,
and the journey
is made in the dark.

Here we shuffle skeletons
and rub bone against
bone. Here shovels
are deep in us
and cannot be touched.
Yet still we see
and touch our past,
by digging deep into
the catacoombs of
the soul. As if
to want to touch
the flesh of yesterday.
As if possessed by a wicked
nostalgia that seeks
to write it's history
about the darkness
and not the light.

How the little sun that
shines in the catacooms
awaits a telling about
its glow. Yes catacoombs
or no story of
disturbed nerves we
owe the world a glowing
telling about this forever
trek that goes on
inside the catacoombs
of our once holy soul,
now dirtier by time.

I listen for footsteps
and hear some. No gum
boots for the gumbo or
dance is over. For
skeletons that once had
legs have forgotten
the rhythm and staccato
of the dances of
yesterday. Let
the skeletons turn alone
and never clap for
you all fast losing
the rhythm. Only truth
remembers the unforgetable.
Let us all leave it to
this teller whose story
never changes. Open
the catacoombs of my
soul, so you can hear
a telling that has not
lost its force.















soul. All layered with
skeletons