So she finally told me her real name after a thousand minute wait.
She actually nodded her head when l carefully spelled her name in the scared page of my memory.
She then looked straight into my swollen eyes filled with loneliness,
Man, l became snarled in her world.
That moment l knew in the inner cave of my soul, alone in the wilderness of thoughts,
That she was the dissident that l have been looking for.
Armed with a countless dictionary of words,
She knew my night dream of her talking with Oprah, in Winfrey show.
I too wished to be like her, before realising that she was a broken poet, a new template of poetic justice.
Undefined, unequatable, rare seed.
I prophesied of her poetic toungue when l was still in my mother 's womb.
In a land, there was going to rise a broken poet melted by the charm of words.
She was my broken poet.
I have nevet met her.
©siyakha
S