Footprints

Footprints

Has anyone seen,

Little footprints so keen,

On the sandy shore,

Where the wind blows galore.

Inquisitive footprints that freely ambled,

Near the lowly hut that was in shambles,

Running along the shoreline,

A pair of which were mine.

Mine, or were they figments?

Of imagination’s colorful pigments,

Washed away by the waves that rushed,

Memories, that got shushed.

Shushed, but now awaking,

Is that a cuckoo singing?

I swear there is no change,

In its melodious vocal range.

Change I do observe,

In the memories I now conserve,

Gone are the happy footprints,

Replaced by ambitious newspaper prints.

  

Prints bearing the works,

Of those dining with fine forks,

And silver-plated knives,

While the ordinary crowd like bee hives.

Hives of confines,

Social and mental fake “I’m fine's",

Strangling of fictional aspirations,

By the grim factual realizations.

How will justice reach the strangled?

Restore the lost empathy to those entangled,

In society’s fake strings,

Of the futile pampering.

My mirror tells,

Break out of such spells,

Look at yourself in the present,

You’re yet not decadent.

You have time to revert,

From the corrupt,

Return is priced at zero dimes,

Just follow those little footprints on the sands of times.