By Shem Onderi
Inside me live sentiments
that never ripen into speech.
No voice rests;
no easy moments settle in the heart.
They refuse to speak out,
unwilling to mature to fruition,
yet they brood—
each with its own unrest.
Every voice demands attention,
clashing into a storm.
Each carries its own burdens.
The house fills with echoes,
each corner, each room
shaping its own strange tongue.
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The dwellers here speak,
too many to hear whole.
Every living thing adds to the disorder:
rodents darting through holes
from nowhere to everywhere.
In lonely meetings with myself,
children arrive uninvited,
each bearing concerns,
scattering the agenda.
Chaos lurks in the taxes,
in the bills.
In the public van,
voices tumble from every mouth—
some alighting,
some boarding.
Even the silent passengers
are too loud.
The gears growl,
smoke blooms in varied colors.
All muddles into the noise
of a frenzied life.
