Globes (A Poem)

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.

A circus

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.