HYP: Exgsosa Zubi
There’s a charm in seeing a world that lives just a little beyond ours,
Patterns and structures powdered in the etchings of chalk and crayon,
The playground is our canvas, but there’s an expiration date.
A vacant sense of creativity resides, erased sketches and broken pencils.
Watercolours seeping out and dripping from the painting,
A paint stroke working harder for every brush that snaps,
The grip on the handle is firm and rigid.
You’re left with splinters in your fingers,
Red drops dotted across your hands.
The passion turns stale and bland,
an empty canvas.
So you’re left wondering what the point was to begin with.
—-
A kaleidoscope of memories,
your mind unfurls like a lotus flower.
Stiffness in your shoulders slipping away.
In a field, the wind whistles past in your sprint.
Hot sun on your back, lollipop swirling in your mouth,
Other kids laugh as many flail and fall over.
Your chests sore from laughing and running too much,
as you dash away from taggers.
Deciding the last game ended in a draw,
Everyone is drained and curled up under a tree.
Heads are resting on the shoulders of those closest to each other,
some snore quietly and a few shift restlessly in slumber,
The trailing sunset peaks through the leaves above,
you drift off to sleep as if you are being carried home.
—-
Exgsosa Zubi, 18
We hope you have enjoyed reading this article. The future of our volunteer led, non-profit publication would be far more secure with the aid of a small donation. You can also support local journalism by becoming a friend of HIP. It only takes a minute and we would be very grateful.
Leave a Reply