A generation lost in space

I once met a man

His silver hair made love to the scanty black

a nose like a nobleman

weary eyes lumbering the earth

with wary smile he double clicked

an apparatus with shaky hands

reminiscing on a time he wore a younger man’s face

He spoke a forgotten tongue

yet familiar tone

He came from a forgotten time

Seems like they never existed

A ghost immature in form,

opposable thumbs, human and what not;

“Ich heiße Ronald”, he says

and I remember this fleeting touch of warmth

metamorphosing man’s sanctimonious ire

before being exiled into space

exhaling star dust and matter

a paranoma of the galaxy beyond yonder

meteors too great to ignore

a black hole reducing man’s innovation to nothing

nothing but a big hole of nothingness

sapping life from beneath

They lit the light when all around is seething in blindness

and hold the peace that Boko haram seek to quench

non conforming with the ideals of millennials

nor with the charisma of Generation Z

The generation born of resilience and silence

The ones nobody listens to

They are simply a generation lost in space

I don’t want to be you anymore

More than once, the cave deity spoke to me. She said,

Remember, you are not him. You don’t have to be like him, walk like him, talk like him. You are not him.

Free yourself from the wrighting manacles of his approval. Release yourself from the controlling power of his mind. It’s more important that you recognise yourself. You shouldn’t have to hide behind his shadow a second longer.

Your greatest metamorphosis will stem from defeating his ego, which your ego emulates.

And when it hit’s you. You will cry till there’s no more tears left  to warm your cheeks.

Then you will be in a position to resonate with the symphony of your higher self.  A note you know too well

Your morale is feral. Savage, never, boisterous.

Alas!  You can inebriate on the wild brew of  freedom.

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