Conversation
You call it conversation; I call it therapy.
The way words melt pain from us.
Like a magician pulling swords from the box,
the leaves falling into piles
through the wind on autumn days.
You call it conversation; I call it therapy.
the words lift depression
like raising the weight off the shoulders of souls.
Like the water crashing down
to sustain the lives, we never see lived.
You call it conversation; I call it therapy.
Speaking under a sky that knows us all,
conversing under the clouds that cover us all.
You called it conversation, but it was always therapeutic.
Like love.
Harbour
Like a sponge draws water he drew her darkness inwards.
Trying to harbour her pain, try to contain her hurt,
attempting to understand
how painful being alone in the dark is.
To love is to accept the darkness
of another and care for it like your own.
Stations
We search for happiness everywhere
except where it's supposed to be found.
We search window panes,
city streets, golden fields, tops of trees.
The stars that add the shine to our eyes,
the fluttering flaps of birds in the skies.
Over gates and beyond walls
through the wind that silently calls.
Stations, bus stops and in our home,
at night when you're all alone.
You'll find fake love you'll believe to be true,
but love isn't love until it starts within you.
©Uwais Coetzee
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Matric 2018
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