The Visit

The Visit prose poem

Photo by -Jeffrey-

The Seventh Day church built on the bend
I curse at the perfection
Alongside these potholes dug deep
A cemetery for hope
Down the road the Pentecostal one wore a hat
It seems the years had stripped away all that
Now skirts are shorter
They keep fighting for souls to save
I hear there are more
Still, all Religion seem to lose here
Never to the heart of the matter
Along I walk counting numbers
Each wall the color of distress
Each fence an iron ceiling
If only the young could escape further than the sidewalk
Rusted lives, rotted cars and baby decorated homes
I smell poor, a state of runny nose, wasted sweat, hungry breath and unopened minds
There’s another world out there
Much more than a trigger’s click
Young ones saddled on hips
Daughters on their heads
Something more than carts to push
And car tires to roll
Maybe you’ll drive something else one day
I walk along,
Almost reaching the top of what used to be my street
And if more people couldn’t see, I would run
Home, surprisingly I had one
Among these things that don’t belong
But I’m okay to forget it
On Batra Road, I’ve turned;
The end is two thirds down
I can see the school from here
Walking down, head also south
I don’t want to stop, thinking

Yet the greetings always wake me up
Into this man made abyss
I flash my whites,
And then without warning it’s upon me again
The furniture shop, on my right
It carved death that night
My close encounter with murder
The plucking of innocence
It ate from our pots and spent nights dreaming on my fence
It loved the sound of jump shots and music
Innocence was my friend, now peas head is dead
I hate passing that reaper, it made nothing antique after that
Almost there, but first, the school
Instrument for fun and sordid lessons
All paid for
In blood and tears, mainly for ballot boxes sake
It’s them that created this
I touch my gate and soil my hands
When I leave I’ll keep washing
Also to purge my soul
I don’t like being here
I always worry I’ll forget what lies beyond
But parts of me are here, my kin
I’ll have to teach the secret of escape
I visit also for the love of mother

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Stacy-Ann Duhaney

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Hebrew Christian | Lover of Eternal Life | Writer - Ray of Sunshine, Space Cadet, Weird Recluse | Wife/Mom | Poet | Sojourner | Artist | Humanitarian | #Entrepreneur @visionshapers | #AspiringAuthor @mypaintedwords |Favourite Quote & Philosophy: "empty pockets never held anyone back, only empty minds and hearts can do that ~ Norman Vincent Peale"Learn more about me at
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