Time Passes

Watching old age is a curious thing.

Watching the marks of the burden of existence forming ridges in exploding wrinkles of skin.

Listening to regrets, dreams denied, and tales of persons lost.

Watching invisible sinewy hands claw up throats year by year, unable to prise unrelenting strangling fingers off.

Watching relief and gladness in anticipation of rest, slowly turn to strife, tension and sadness in the realisation that all those years of work and diligence, amounts to little more than a pat on the back.

Watching youthful and strong rage turn to old and weary acceptance.

The twilight was supposed to be the dawn, but it has brought the clouds and the threatening shadow of the reaper.

“Where did time go?”

And of the diaspora? The diaspora’s survivors. The ones who came, who settled, who strove, who hustled, who poured out of nothing to create something, who bled, who died to themselves, who faced opposition, violence and ridicule and still…they stood.

What do they have to show for it?

A country that never knew their name. Never cared. Never treated them as one of them.

A country that once it had finished draining every last bit of humanity, strength, contribution, body, life, spirit, soul…said "Here you go. Here’s a little bit of pocket money to live off for the rest of your days."

All the while allowing private companies and organisations to snatch it right back with interest added.

More years pass.

The fingers reach higher.

The grip gets tighter.

Bones groan.

Voices weaken.

Will melts.

Hope fades.

Death.

First published: March 12th 2016