The following was written by a society member who wishes to remain anonymous
The globe that stood,
In the kitchen of my childhood,
Spun smoothly on its axis.
The green glowing as one vast
Conglomerated mass which coated the sphere.
I would trace my fingers over my home,
Freely leaping across land,
Ignorant of borders,
Blissfully naïve of boundaries
Which would curb
My childish play.
The rivers which cut through countries
Were merely a tightrope
Over which I could hop across the climates.
Of a continent.
All within my safe haven, protected
By the four walls of my kitchen
And the promises of politicians.
That same globe still stands in that kitchen,
A room that I have come to visit rather than live in,
As time has aged.
I learned that promises could shatter as easily
As a globe could.
Mother’s polish unable to wipe away
The grease of dust which hangs
Over that green land turned grey,
I see the cracks, obliterated like a broken vase
That cannot be fixed
With superglue or superficiality.
My home eroding at my fingertips,
As the axis stiffens to a halt.