The Safari

The golden dust, the scent of coming rain, The rising sun on the vast and open plain. A canvas painted in ochre, green, and gold, A story ancient, and so bravely told. The engine hums, a low and patient sound, As the jeep goes searching for hallowed ground. A silhouette of giraffes, tall and serene, A living image on a wild and endless scene The mighty lions, a sun-soaked tawny pride, Hidden in the grasses where their instincts guide. A leopard's shadow, elusive and so rare, Sliding through the thicket with a quiet, watchful stare. The trumpeting echo of the elephant's call, As families wander, moving free and tall. A wildebeest stampede, a blur of motion swift, A thundering promise, a primal, moving gift. And when the twilight paints the sky anew, With fiery hues of crimson and deep blue, The campfire crackles, a low and steady glow, With jackals barking in the dark, and stars that grow. The stillness settles, vast, deep and wide, The wildness stirring, with nowhere left to hi...
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Pain and Sorrow

The shadow wears the sun for a mask.

It rises when the day should end, a hush,

And paints the world in shades of fading gold,

Before it drowns the last triumphant blush.

The pain is not a shout, a single blow,

But slow decay, the gnawing of a mouse.

It takes away the color from the glow,

And leaves behind a hollow, silent house.


This sadness isn't sudden, sharp, or new,

It is an heirloom passed from past to present.

A heavy deadness clinging to the view,

A constant, faithful, unwelcome tenant.

I walk on solid ground, or so I think,

Until a hole appears beneath my feet,

And with a terrifying, sudden blink,

I start a plummet, endless and complete.


The world goes on, a blur of sound and light,

But I am sealed inside a fog of grey.

The laughter of others feels wrong and bright,

A distant land I cannot reach today.

I long for words that never leave my throat,

To name the ache, to make the burden known.

A ship adrift, a silent moat,

And all my grief is mine alone to bear.


So I sit still, a quiet, patient host,

For grief that brings its own humid, tropical heat.

I offer it my time, my life, my most

Vulnerable self, in this slow, aching defeat.

The heart that should be brave is now a drum,

Pounding a sorrow that has no true end.

And in this silent prison, I become

The very wound I try in vain to mend.

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