I used to have a lot of hope,
but lately, it's diminishing.
Slowly weaned by the world on
a diet of disaster and death
the realisation that when
my age is not quite as tender
as it is now,
there will be nobody left.

It then follows that,
as many of my anscestors have
and those that follow me will,
i leave a part of myself
in my words.

Perhaps five years ago i would
have embelished my words with
dashes of sentiments, rich.
Of lust, love and tomorrow.
But these days my finger clicks
on the slight square bricks,
that constitute my keyboard,
hold the thoughts of a man
beyond his years.

I cry for characters in prose,
the news, and those exposed
by cameras and wish for nothing
more than for one of them
to whisper
softly in my ear -

"M, It'll be okay."