The Prideful Countdown

There is no spoonful big enough to help the present down, nor enough salt in the sea to pinch; the cards have been dealt but the dealer is counting.

 

Counting the days until things change; for better or for worse, though more likely the latter, they will. Flames rampage around, nations engulfed by storms, vanity's pendulum swings for all to see, but... on a small island in the middle of the ocean... all eyes are focussed on three spaces, two letters, one people.

 

People fear what they don't understand; listen too closely to their cats; proverbs incomplete in a self fulfilling prophecy. Guidance given to those who hold the island in their hands, words to shape the laws dictated or to be ignored. Paper problems hoisted up, enemies thin as straw; invaders within the sanctum, barging through the door. Fears stirred, needlessly so, but the damage is now done, dust lingers in the air.

 

Air-waves riddled, infested, noise upon their backs; never softly spoken, poisonous and barbed, targeted tightly so. Those two letters, strangely important now but rarely seen together, linger at alphabet's end; two letters to describe a person as a scientific fact, though denies some the truth within; simplified comforts trumps all. Two letters all carry, hardwired in helix doubled, difficult to determine which ones though, assumptions made at birth. A crime to consider mistakes previously made, no chance to change their mind, a split second glance is all they need.

 

Need, want, must have: help and camaraderie. Times have changed, trending down, positivity in short supply. Despite the anger, despite the lies, the people remain as one. Unified as they are but not quite, pockets of resistance; one ideal shared. In time, healing will come, hope it must at least. When tides change and winds blow new, survivors will tell their tales; until such time, we lend our ears, our arms, our hearts to them, shield their way to future pastures, till island's eyes focus true.