old age is a myth
spread by the small,
withered people, who, stupidly,
forgot to stay young.
to dance in the grass, wild,
and beat a tap-a-tap,
crazy-strange cartwheel on the
elastic black drum of sky,
to fall! roll in the crunch-snap
of the resentful snow, and scream!
glorious carnal gleeful rage
to the uncaring pines,
to destroy brittle leaves wantonly,
as they cry out with a crack,
and kiss, freely, hotly, careless -
joyous in public. to breathe hot sun air!
to be young, in the days
when old age is a myth.
Author notes
Written August 31st, 2005
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Great work! Love the imagery and the idea of the poem... very nice stuff. Good flow, well-written... really nice job!
-Spencer
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