They had been unhappy for so long,
they did not even notice.
It had become their ears, mouth, eyes,
misery clawed at their throats
Grooves appeared on their cheeks;
to drive down the tears.
It could not be found in religion;
or the self help books that graced their book shelves.
Success was not happiness;
money, the temporary hit
of an addict that needed the constant high.
In that moment they were sure that this was happiness.
That was until they heard the peels
of laughter escaping from the play ground.
And so they sat, everyday;
dwelling in the happiness dispensed by the playground children
© Chipo Cleopatra Kuuya 2007