Diary Of A Teapot

That night the mists on table mountain
Hung like shrouds on an autopsy slab
And the stars above the cairns below
Shone like gems in an idol’s eye
And once more blue lights shone on the marsh
And the tar pits gurgled in ghoulish delight
By my parent’s word was I sculpted
“what has never lived can never die”.

By day am I short and stout and still
By night am I out of sight and mind
As I cast my spells though they be not mine
My words spill like blood till I fall
I wait under cover of cast iron
For the witching hour to arrive
For then the dish runs away with the knife
To heed the creator’s call.

Tip me over, pour out your faith
Blame your fault on some malignant wraith
The simple truth is that this isn’t true
What you have blamed on me was done by you
(Tokoloshe)
Can’t you hear them crying out for more?
Entire species now obsessed with gore
Call me a demon, but I can see
You all are worse than I will ever be
(Tokoloshe)

I am a servant of the fear
(taking form in your curse)
Given sight by the seer
(and a voice by your verse)
Into the sky above Johannesburg
(after the fire)
Servitor, sentinel, sentience at your desire!