What would you say,
Would it be kind and gentle,
Whispers of promise and hope,
Or stern and judgemental,
Words of wisdom and experience,
What would you say to the person who wrote this?

Does it?
Does life get better?
From this splintered benchtop I can’t see it improving.
We tell ourselves it will get better,
Only to rot and wither and perish anyway,
You become a distant memory to no one who will be here tomorrow,
A wisp of smoke lost to the winds of time,
Nothing beyond the here and now and the emptiness of tomorrow,
Shadows engulf our waking moments till the light no longer remains,
The suffocation of all that brightens around us,
Leaving nothing but ash and dust too bitter to swallow,
As the sanguine colours of it all swirl beyond our reach,
Staining our jaded smiles,
And the faded hopes of tomorrow.