Resident Artist 4: No. 1 —- SANDS
It was as pouring sand into a precipice, an awning tear
Of jagged rocks to the questioning skies laid bare
It was as if you held a sieve to the sea and sought its might to drain
Somewhere with your quivering hands that fear the strain
It was quenching fire with a lantern of oil that joined the pyre
Of gilded echoes laid to rest in their cenotaph of rotted desire
It was like caging of the heavens the wayward bound errant cloud
To mask reality’s austere face with a dismal deathly shroud
It was chasing of the winds the wisps of wandering smoke
That the sunset hid in its strides when its radiance it did revoke
It was asking of a tree the name of all its orphaned leaves
Abandoned by time and solitude to whirl by forest eaves
It is the lost spark of the hammers, leaping from anvils bleak
Did it mock the fleeting brilliance, renowned for being so weak
It is that bag of sand that you think will fill one day that hole
That burns and widens every day into your ever darkening soul
Not the words of soothing calm, nor the blithe joy of sunny days
Will drape over that crevice that has marred the future’s ways
For into the cracks of resolution did fester vermin darkly alone
To howl as wolves into the moon and to the sunlight groan
So be still, you need not be laden with the burden of pouring sand
Into a chasm that shall never be appeased, so stay your industrious hand
Shake the dust that clung to your garments and seek the pathways of the sun
Where another dream has entered the world and a fresh journey begun
I shall forever hold those grains of sand to remember the ruins of the past
That beckon the call of reason, that beyond capricious fate naught does last
Not the foundation upon which, we built our dreams, not even our tears
Could salt the earth and bar it from harvest, when renewal nears….
I (Tamara Lakomy) am an author, and a poet, but I have never sought to publish my poetry before as it was deemed too dark and heavy, laden with a melancholy and metaphysical twist that most people could not relate to. I grew up in North Africa, a tribal Amazigh feminist girl in a repressive regime, witnessing many dark things that have scarred my memory. I grew up around the mystical marabouts and the witch doctors that ruled over the souls, I was exposed to a wilderness of spirit and bare human cruelty that the West seldom comprehends; radicalisation, jihad, organ trafficking and the likes.
Copyright © 2017 by Tamara Lakomy