(Re-Envisioned) The World’s Smallest Violins
Cowering on the floor in fear from the unknown who is smiling outside the front door.
Scared of the kids riding skate boards down the street... because they no longer see children’s eyes; only thinking of homicide.
Living alone as the world passes by; to be repeated in slow motion on the news that five.
These prophets of doom on the TV screen; it is enough to make them want to scream.
To see the future as only a shadow of the past; oh it must be so crass.
Old folks who can’t cope living alone; are left cowering inside their homes.
Decisions made to win ended up being sink or swim.
Discovering their plans for the future has all fallen apart. Do they need another stock-market chart?
Those bills keep piling up and they’re down on hands and knees-pleading for some relief.
Asset rich and cash poor, pensioners standing in the welfare line, selling their homes to live just ten years more; are running out of time.
What is the luck that they don’t all get fucked by bureaucratic muck...?
Old folks who can’t afford to live at home are left to find another abode .
Another day watching the fan blades circling around their heads; waiting to be tucked into bed.
No purpose, no point of view, no political power according to the bureaucratic fools; and maybe me and you.
What is the penalty for maturity; a room smaller than a jail cell, with get well cards along the walls from family who never seem to call.
While they’re alive you would wonder who are their next-of-kin... but as death approaches it all turns to a game of family sins.
Do they pray or hope that this is judgement day and it is time to pay.
Old folks condemned to a nursing home while their ancestors squabble for the throne.
Beneath the earth their lover’s rest; as time devours their treasured memories of the best.
Trying to live while they can; even though some are chained to the can or peeing like a withered man.
Brush these crumbs from their gray hairs; wipe this dribble from their faces.
Living in a place where farewells are the living end; waiting for service... wondering when their will begin.
Old folks interned in a grave yard; as their scratched records slumber in the second hand store.
Their old love letters and photos are thrown out with the Trash; oh, it is all so crass.
Today’s vain generation looks to online when their future is already in the past.
It is a present from one generation to the next... Maybe we should learn to be the first to understand the simple truth that is blind to youth, or we too will be walking in a dead man’s shoes.
The music box dancer no longer turns as her key has been lost.
The world’s smallest violins accompany words never spoken; because we’re all so broken.
The world’s smallest violins play as tomorrow’s generations draw their cards.
The world’s smallest violins squeal; it is so surreal.
The world’s smallest violins playing above the bed-head; as though mocking from the dead.
The world’s smallest violins are plucked; as the world is now fucked.
© Copyright 2017 joshua boyde. All rights reserved.
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