The Bastard Son

It’s that type of circumstance that leaves you rooted in your stance,
Stunted in your growth and unsure about whether to be blunt,
It’s times like these when you could go off into a rant, but the voices in your head insist on a chant,
You want to unleash every possible brickbat but for some vaguely identifiable reason, beyond recognition burnt,
You just can’t.

Sometimes we think we are numb, playing dumb through our pain,
Sometimes we think we’re calm, patient in our waiting so vain,
But in reality we are but a fraction of our dream man, certain to fail,
Yet we hold on, even strong-arm our brain,
Into believing our very own absurd, wishful claim.

Stop time, will you?
I need to take back what’s mine and kiss this ire goodbye,
But alas, you can’t, can you? What I desire I can only reminisce and sigh,
You need to leave then, I no longer admire the words from your lips, not if they speak such lies,
When shall anyone see my outcry? Shall I hiss and bite before you see that I would sooner die?

The tempest has come,
At the slightest sign of it you would run,
But yet here I am,
The test fell to the nonchalant one,
The crest borne by the benign son,
To represent the almighty Centurion,
Who lent no hand when enemies bled the nation.

Leave me be then,
I see a notable ignoble trend,
Let me fight without thee, it’s for the best.

Mine in perpetuity,

Evans Mbora Campbell.

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