Wednesday, 11 December 2013

A letter to my lover

The clock will turn, 50 you shall turn
The prime of your age, they will say
The time for your will, I will say
To protect the children from being disinherited
To protect me, your true and faithful lover, from being inherited
Taxes, buses, truces, bruises, nurses, they who abandon you to die
At 50 they say you are ailing
Yet I know you to be as active as when we first met
At 50 years they say you are too slow, that your growth is stunted
Yet, your heart grows bigger with age
Because the baby boomers filled your vast with brood
The brood is busy.
Riding their tyres on your back
Disregarding the toil of your past years
They try to understand you
But they fail
Because they refuse to listen to your stories
They are too blinded by the language in your will
Questioning their share to inherit
Wondering why you take too long to die
So that they can erase your history
They who are with you, for the next 50

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