Wristbands by Abigail Wyatt

Yes, I will wear one:
retiring, undefeated,
or at least not admitting it,
as I back away,
hot tears rolling from eyes
spiked with despair
down cheeks
hollowed out by time,
I will wave
both my arms
in the air, cry:
It’s not me. It’s THEM.
THEY are the ones
who are cruel
to their fellows,
who are driven
by desire for
consumables,
kept alive by fear
of their own emptiness
and justified
by profit and loss.
Just make it a pretty one;
make it the colour
of the skies
dappled with daisies,
celandines and buttercups,
pink hedgerow roses
and bluebells.
I will wear one
gladly.
I will wear it
with pride.
Mine should say this:
a well of wise sadness;
flawed but still
perfectly human

Photo: Reuters/Keith Bedford

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