The powers that be
They toy with our lives; snuffing out bright flames without warning and fanning the flames of those who want only to burn others. Sat back, watching drought, starvation, genocide and abuse like a reality TV show that only they know the numbers to.
If anyone of us knew those numbers we would dial. Press 1 to stop hate, press 2 to feed the entire 3rd world, press 3 for justice. Are the premium rate numbers just too high a price for the powers that be? Or maybe we’re just too entertaining; the annoying, love to hate characters being kept in just to torture.
The apple of his eye
He looks at me with a smile, the apple of his eye. Snuggled on the sofa, his arm wrapped around me, holding me close. I lean my head onto his chest, listen to his heart beating steadily; strong, constant. As revving F1 engines or the grunts of sweaty, rugby men came from the TV it never occurred to me that the steady, strong heartbeat of his would one day stop.
If I knew then the gaping hole that would soon be left, I would hold on so tight that we would still be in on that sofa, in that embrace.
The writing on the wall
I knew. You always do, don’t you? When that connection is broken.
You can’t create a bond so strong, that has weathered fire and brimstone, without something in the universe noting it’s passing. Without something inside you feeling that terrible loss.
As it starts to weather; the strains of life pulling at those strands you thought were so secure, you see the writing on the wall. The frayed edges begin to tickle against your nerves while you desperately fight to fix the unfixable.
Plait as you might it is not steel and some bonds are not meant to last forever.