Guttabingi Mary Prisca
Dear 2050,
How are the daily struggles of life?
-breathing, smiling, living-
Do not grin till your charred lips
Crack from this repetitive exercise
You like calling survival.
Do not force it
Because right in our cemetery
Is a mould of humour that rots
-sorry- rolls relentlessly.
We even have potential jokes like the cabinet
And a now-powerless-COVID-bully.
It’s not all about pandemics and worms
Like they all claim.
By the way,
You are cordially invited to our land
Where we finally absconded
with the “no social distance” rule.
Here, we are family;
Constantly rubbing shoulders like Siamese twins,
We are inseparable like that!
So why stick to your grief-stricken generation?
A sad era with happy selfies?
We used to be genuinely sad.
We can’t tolerate your sarcasm
from our lockdown graves.
Furthermore,
There’s no hate we give,
But rather love that’s threatening
To burst out of us like water through a dam.
2050, you and I could make super cute and adorable babies,
But you are in self-denial,
And definitely 30 years older than me.
Since your absence makes our hearts grow fonder,
We shall wait for you
Like Christians wait for judgement day!
Consumed with longing and frustration,
Watching these blossomed lilies
All wither around us
And when we finally meet
In a mortuary, your sleep or a car wreck,
It will be more of an explosion
Than a mere kiss of death;
A bomb erupting between the moment
Our lips make contact,
Fusing us together
Like two atoms in a nuclear reactor.
We shall clasp each other
Like two shipwreck survivors
Miraculously washed up the shore.
This sort of perfection
Deserves to be immortalised.
Who says no to dark paradise?
Your patient lover, 2020.
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