My Lasting Minutes

He tiptoes through a graveyard bloom,
Sells sunshine from a powerless room.
While stomachs howl and cables rot,
He hugs the ghost of what we’re not.

He feeds the pigs, then blames the sty,
Writes sonnets while the children die.
His gospel? Load-shed lullabies—
A choir of lies in tailored ties.

A mannequin stitched from PR fog,
Part-time messiah, full-time cog.
He rules the ruins, slow and clean—
The smiling face of the ANC machine.