O Let us rant, O young, for soon we die,
Too old to matter, let us have our say;
For soon enough, your will your hand shall try;
Time cometh soon that might you have your day.
If you succeed, you’ll not respect the dead,
But jeer and mock us all within our graves;
But old are we, who’ve seen so many tread,
And end, as ill, their chosen path as slaves.
So time and time again, your plans will fail;
But ne’er will you remember how we warned;
By then, our warning will to no avail;
Nor, of us, memory, but were we scorned.
If honest, you would scorn yourselves as well;
Deep down, this brave new world, you knew were Hell.
‘Tis the way of futures based upon Utopian thought.
You lash out most beautifully as your dark words wail at the blank stares. Will the poet see a sliver of comprehension alight upon a curious reader? Or does he write his words of pain and despair and turn away when it is all said and done? Will June get that fateful note from her own true love? Will she wait for him instead of flying away on the Hindenburg? Tune in tomorrow to see if I’m not so sleepy that I start writing nonsense on my Dear Mr. Emeron’s blog.
I do wish I might convey some of this to our little ones, some of whom so often realise not the dangerous path they tread.
…and what about…
Cue the music…
Hammond Organ, naturally….
The bell tolls for thee….ahhhh, yute (to quote My Cousin Vinny). Resonant, dark words for a dark day….thunder booming, rain slashing at the windows…petals of the azaleas being ripped and flung to the ground and drowned by the rain. I think this poem needs another cup of coffee and another read.
Such fine words. We are still travelling. Again. There and back again. It has been an adventure.