This time yesterday, we were alive,
dancing in the streets, painting
the pavements with our laughter
and the air with our songs,
like a marching band with
bright paper streamer drum beats
and iridescent firework chanting
around us, above us, everywhere.
One thing can taint everything,
like a cancer that spreads
and multiplies, turning every cell
into a shell.
When the flood came, it washed
the joy out of our voices, the
colour from our faces and we
became dead, grey, silent,
like masterless marionettes
hanging from abandoned strings,
graceless corpses, drained within
from without and being without.
This is what we will remember,
For even our memories
Are now diseased.
No comments:
Post a Comment