Member-only story
Inside the hut, my heart the mud.
1 min readFeb 19, 2021
And my father’s younger brother,
UTat’omncinci uSmiso
stood tall, with his bean bowed
feet floating like faulty heaven.
If I continued with that B.Com degree
I would have been him. A host for his ghost.
But, unlike you all, I drove myself here, to this hell.
The imaginary walls close-in,
a real claustrophobia creeps out from within,
I find myself in limbo, above the dead but below the living.
No! Ma’ can’t be blamed for dropping me off.
This is free-will, formulated by fate.
Each feeding into the other in an endless loop.
An interchangeable cause and effect.
What caused the effect, and who was affected by this cause?
Emaciated frames of Hanged Men do not wear any joy.
| a poem by nublaccsoul x new-black-soul
