by Nick Gisburne
They strive to steal his happiness away,
The freedom he, above all else, reveres.
They never take it all, but, day by day,
Another piece is missing. Change. Who cheers?
How many ever notice what is lost?
How few could make a list of what they had?
Each minor nuisance adds another cost.
Was that so hard to take? Was that so bad?
The oldest. He was there to see them go.
Remembering the contrast, this to then,
He speaks, though no one listens. “Stop the flow.
Reverse it. Take us back. Begin again.”
His yesterdays are buried in the past.
What liberty was ever meant to last?
