Our world is dying,
but we say long live the world — as panic rises and chaos ensues.
Soon the city streets will be empty of life and its beat —
but full of ghosts and shards of broken hearts.
Hope has been flat-lined,
can’t feel it breathing.
We wait to exhale.
This ain’t living.
Tis the season for joy to be sucked out of the remaining festive spirits.
In an age of so much darkness and little light,
memories of yester-years cloud the sky then slip away.
This is our time, a time we won’t soon forget — though we may try.
This is our winters tale, one for the history books —
soon to be shelved collecting dust untouched.
Who knew Driving Home for Christmas — would become a rebellion song? There is judgement all around.
My heart beats are heavy as my head pounds.
From a distance — I wish you well as the exodus is in full swing now.
There is no need to imagine scenes of desperate despair and weariness,
we’ve already arrived.
Carried along by these moments of movement
amongst waves of people longing for hugs.
The tide has come in to wash us away.
Beds have been made — as we rise from laying through sleepless nights and dawn breaks us open to more of the same foolishness from yesterday.
Should every nation under the sun, moon and stars —
chastise the lonely for risking it all to break a cycle of perpetual loneliness?