My Mum sold her soul to the Blueman,
on a midnight.
Some say he was the only man from the town strong enough to hold death away,
his heart still pounding beneath rotting human flesh.
Another tale tells of him suffering skin discolouration
from a deadly and poisonous snake that bit him,
but in return, spared the lives of 500 children
held captive by a Demon.
Propping himself against a gravestone which had been pulled out from the soil
to form a seat for him,
he welcomed his customers with a branch as blue as his skin,
which he instructed them to lightly kiss.
He called it the kiss of a promise but everyone knew
that their gestures permanently sealed their entrapment,
for it was the countless weeping souls within the branch that had transformed its form to a melancholic Blue.
Did he really unshackle the lives of a 500 or had it
all been the telling of a fable
to save the pride of a town sheltering
a repugnant murderer?
Still, my mum obediently knelt before the grave stone and
planted a kiss on the Blueman’s branch as he
claimed to have entrapped the demon inside her daughter within
a Curacao liquor bottle.
As he rose with the full bottle,
the engraved wordings on the gravestone came to sight,
under a Full moonlight;
My name was carved on the stone he sat on,
and behind me,
lived the tombs of 500 young, bleeding girls
jungle raped by a creature the colour of
I wrote this poem after feeling aggravated by the news of a man raping a 11-months-old baby.