Precious moments unused, squandered.
Broken homes, brimming with emaciated dreams,
While time grows prosperous and fat on the bones of shattered faith.
The children cry.
Drenched in screaming neglect,
they are too afraid to harbour ambitions
or to disappoint those who fail them.
They know better, but they will procrastinate.
They watch life climb tall glasses
only to fall tipsy with despair.
Quietly, they will acknowledge the misfortunes that shadow them.
At least, they might taste some bittersweet drops of celebratory wine.
They tell themselves. Tomorrow will be better.
It must be.
Because, there is always a fighting chance to defeat misery,
one jab at a time.
They know better, but they must keep hope alive to survive.
In their Sunday best, they hold court in their hands.
And pray.
They silence the television sets and mute the news, the smartphones.
Then pray for hope.
What difference could one person make anyway?
They know better, but it might be easier to feast alone – eyes wide closed.
Then again, this is hardly the time for nostalgic introspection.
Be strong!
It’s every man and woman for themselves.
And even if compromise becomes a six-letter swear word, a sign of weakness.
There might still be hope –
sometimes hope is worth hoping for.
Let the sceptics curate the answers to the questions jumping off walls.
They could come in handy one day.
They know better.
Yet, they seldom bother.
Such are the vicissitudes of life,
and the wisdom of fools.
