Youth is that pretty-colored, cellophane wrapper which yields up its sweet contents with the passage of time.
I yearned for a taste of the dream-nougat within those rainbow sheaths, but found Life's pungent scent too strong a contender in the olfactory match. Poor Sweet Delight had no chance for the champion's belt.
Half full, my crinkled bag of goodies dwindled even as then, in vain attempt to satisfy this craving for that which woulda, coulda, shoulda been mine, I realized I had no yearning to be sated by the attainment of that to which I’d aspired.
It’s long since I've tossed that crumpled, empty sack which once held Life's sweetest confection, Dreams, my dreams, now all gone with Youth down Futility's path.
If I squint, I can see, just see them both waving to me as they drop beneath Horizon's trap door.
by, Pieds-Joyeux (lj)
In a list
What did you think? Feedback is love. :D (constructive criticism much appreciated)
Comments
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i really enjoyed the poem, great job man!
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thank you. i appreciate your stopping in to comment. do stop back by.
regards
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What a great metaphor. You carried it out beautifully till the end. I love your choice of words, wonderful imagery. Such a sad message, but familiar. Lovely prose poem.
KW~
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Thanks for stopping by . . . .
i appreciate your feedback. i have a hard time w/prose poems as i don't understand them. but, i'm glad this one congealed into something enjoyable.
regards
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