Old People Always Complain, Don't They?

I cannot disentangle where we are
From what we are. The world seems
A ruined place, arthritic almost,
Frozen, hopeless, not the bright,
Evolving thing I felt it was when
We were young. All could gain,
We thought, back then. We'd
Feed the poor and free the shackled.
We would prosper at our jobs,
But now, what we've had ebbs away.
The jobs are gone, the shackles
Back. The poor are cursed and
Kept apart... and we are old,
And what we see may be
Reflections of ourselves, our
Weariness and resignation.
Does the world yet evolve?
Perhaps it does, while we
Do not, and what is ruined
Isn't what is seen, but who
Observes.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 53 times
Written on 2013-06-09 at 14:15

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