I miss my alone times—
where gravity pulls gravid thoughts
down to the bedrock of my solitary land,
where I forage among old pages of deeply buried poems,
scratching invisible marks
into the margins of my arching African poetry.
Alone, I laugh,
wondering what I might have been,
had I never been at all.
My eyes thirst for the ache of moonlight,
while the walls behind me tremble,
their grief laced with silent tears.
But unlike the evicted souls,
I die alone,
long before my moreish smiles are dismantled.
I miss my alone times—
where the vicious whip of Kachikau\'s winter nights
does not lash me,
where the relentless bells of Chobe\'s mosquito bites
go unanswered.
I listen only to the music of my lilting brain.
Alone, I am unseen.
Alone, I cannot see you.
Alone, I imagine things
that make sense only to me.
Alone, I own the world.
Alone, I am a victorious victor.
Alone, I never lose.