* A response to short story The Pedestrian
January 2055 I sit and watch,
As her fingers stride,
Along the side of her ukulele.
The melody draws me.
Less and less are left untouched,
Her eyes open wide, staring.
Missing of what it used to be,
As her coloured painting turns to gray.
She frowns at her disproportionate landscape.
Just a little peak from the corner of her eye,
Being Helpless as the storm of change goes by,
Overdrives her with anger.
No more of the blue bird's loving lullaby,
Even worse, less bubbly faces as people pass by.
They still do, but no more shots of whimsical emotions,
As it gives lady ukulele less reason to love her place.
Long before this every night she prays to God,
Next minute thinking he's a fraud.
Unlike everybody else, she is not a sane believer.
Not wanting more for herself.
January 2055 I sit and watch.
The dull and colourless world of the lady ukulele,
She thinks these are all,
Just a faux reality
