Hard Times

We have fallen on hard times

When the only true currency we have left

Are memories of abundance soon to be forgotten,

Where even in our waking dreams

The ghosts of things past have cease their mad gyrations

And the stench of hogs scents our days, and haunts us.

The tattered remains of our treasures, the solitary coin in our pocket

Are all that is left of our squandered existence

Dire in our poverty, we have felt the sharpest pangs of hunger

But the tears can no longer flow

Dissipated, we are the hollow people.

It wasn’t always like this.

We were children of a King, nobles from a faraway kingdom

Barefoot, we make our way to a road we swore never to tread again

We rehearse our lines, aware of our diminishment

Who cares for a feast of fattened calf when a morsel will do?

Who cares for a robe and a ring when the simplest of garments will suffice?

Who cares for an embrace when a look of acknowledgement will be enough?