Updated: Oct 18, 2019
When arrays of velvet roses are exposed from wooms of nature, They dream not of the slumber that once was. And as the loose earth beneath them strengthens, Oaks and trees alike, grow out like houses, They too forget their youthful sins and flaws, That is for now, at least.
Whilst brooding business’s flourish, living what once was a vision, They dream not of the decline that was. And so too do the bottomless pockets, Of the suits that founded optimism, They may recollect, but do not cherish, Oh, the days before days.
Once sand is transformed into glass, and that glass becomes one’s canvas, It looks to the future, elsewhere unknown. So why is it that some, not listed above Cringe when blessed with the foreseeable might, To view their own growth, foreseeable fright, Twixed fabrication, juxtaposed by light That shines from the days before days?
It is not that both exisitence and the following fall short, They dream not of a life without meaning. The present is in itself a present, What follows, reeking of quaint adventures, Future appeal is just simply outweighed, By these days before days, These nights before nights and our sight before sights, These memories of yours, you’re unable to fight.
So endeavour, at will, envision your path as one of intrigue, A vision far bolder than past’s delights, Once more, you will call on this conviction, Though, truly I feel that in forced dire ways, Innevitably pulled, middle a daze, Screaming, the velvet rose array now braised, You’ll come back with me, to the days before days.
I wrote this poem a very long time ago, in an attempt to grapple with my own coming of age quality.
Let me know in the comments below what you thought!