Creative Nation 2: Writers of the 2014 Crocodile Prize, C - D
I am a time traveller, not a transitional person

Invaded

PATRICIA MARTIN

The rugged endless terrain crawls mercilessly,
Winding and meandering carelessly,
Through time and age;
Challenging the cause and destiny of the inhabitants along its path.

The beauty thereof, one beholds in awe.
Parallel to this unspeakable awakening,
Is the disappearance of a varied species of flora and fauna.
Yet no one awakes. It is like a dream.

Unruly children run riot,
Hard headed hunters mock the herds,
The intoxicated vagabond roams the byways and the highways
Destabilising the longstanding landmark,
Intimidating and crippling its roots.

The lactating homemaker dishonours her capacity
As the pivot of her abode,
Forsaking her role in exchange for a wider option.
Those mind-boggling choices and decisions has impinged
The walls of her shelter.

The foundational pillars have been stained, by irrevocable paint
Over the course of time, which no dime can cautiously erase.
The potter’s wheel is slower because the belt that fastens it is worn,
Torn by unseen forces tingling the brain.

Beacons and torches of long ago
Has faded and taboos are disintegrating at an alarming rate.
A thorough investigation will reveal
Appalling results;

That the icing is but a mere decoration,
An insult to the ceremonial cremation,
Creeping suspiciously and covering all surface types,
Devouring the top soil and tenaciously eating its way to the core.

The attitude of the multitude is a magnitude tide.
It builds or it breaks,
Swaying at the disrespectable command of the mighty torrential wind,
Of imported ideologies challenging the very fabric of our society.

Built in ages past on values by virtuous men and women,
Highly respected, who amuse the congregational masses
Living humbly, in well-mannered communal, guided by unwritten laws.

Simplicity is a mockery in the trickery face of the youngster,
Who is drawn to the gravitational beckoning of the more sophisticated gadget,
Which is a mere reversal to the unsuspecting elder,
Who is more accustomed to the realism of his tangible seclusion. 

Then comes one of us, one of our very own,
Whose eloquent words are well versed, tickling the ear
And magically captivates the innermost central nerve,
That solidly holds in place our identity.

Slowly, we lose grip of the one ingredient, so dear to us,
Our local vernacular, so peculiar and diverse,
Yet clearly vanishing.
Widening the curve of verbal communication.

We make a fuss,
In our secular transverse
And sincerely commit to punishing
Ourselves, in all the commotion
We brought upon this generation.

Feeling locked out and alienated,
The trees whisper discouragement,
Moreover, stones of all shapes and sizes hibernate.
We shamelessly lose our footing

And carelessly cling to the branch,
That has profoundly refused to connect us to our source.
Not intentionally, but dutifully,
Leading us hurriedly, to gasp for air to survive

In a familiar surrounding.
But the atmosphere is unbelievably clouded
With unfamiliar voices,
Whispering in the wind.

A trickle of dew angrily touches the eye,
Causing instant discomfort
And naturally, the hand responds to wipe away the foreign object,
Already attached, obscuring clear vision and proper judgement.

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