What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore…
and then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over…
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it just explode?
What are five years in a lifetime but a grain in an hourglass? The sheer volume of smears, and the force against which the revolution is attacked is but a sign of its irksome existence for some.
For those who believed in what they sought in the Square: the misery that is upon you is but the brief passing of pangs in a body rising from deep slumber. To you, there is still time, there is still life in the balmy street corners, in conversations that resist being hushed, in letters smuggled from locked cells, and in the festering injustice broiling beneath the surface of our master’s perfect pot.
To those whose purpose in life has been stunted to serve an Orwelian state, and to teach others that hope is a four letter word: your dysphemism is a thing for comedy. It betrays fear and weak judgement. Your non sequiturs about the world are ridiculed neigh and far. Your gag routines will eventually wear thin, and you shall, soon enough, retain your perches in the abyss of shame and irrelevance. That is a promise.