Dear Adulthood,
I am with you now.
Are you happy?
Do you know what you have cost me to cure your own loneliness?
When I was young I was grateful that I had not been born into an age of public execution. That the world was safer and saner, the golden rule laminated, regarded and mounted on the door of my second grade classroom.
Why didn't you tell me it was only for children?
Out of a longing to posses your secrets I related to my neighbors maturely,
as you wished:
Trusting that connection runs deeper than compassion.
I believed dear Adulthood,
by your assuredness,
that you were incomprehensible because you had something great to offer.
You are an ocean of piousness.
I trusted your truths
that blanket all worlds in this world like moonlight.
Your knowledge may be questioned but never your validity:
you are known to the oldest; not the wisest but the most traditional.
A mystery to innocent wisdom. A sorrow to experienced wisdom...
What great wisdom has privileged you so?
To cease to examine things closely.
Oh Adulthood.
Time has deadened your senses.
It is old news to you.
How wonderful! How mature!
To drink your wine and taste it slowly,
Undelighted, unmoved.
And it is not only your face of convention that lacks luster.
For all whom you have taken have settled into you.
And long for their days of exploration.
Out there, in memory
Dormant and waiting for one internal glance
That would not become you dear Adulthood.
For the days of knowing are here.
You would laugh at youthful simplicity:
A child's campaign to end the war.
And yet you are silenced by the purity of the slave who asks for freedom,
And the monk who would burn peacefully.
Why do you trust in yourself what you seek to cure in children?
Dear Adulthood,
I forgive you.
And I will spend my life unlearning you.
I am with you now.
Are you happy?
Do you know what you have cost me to cure your own loneliness?
When I was young I was grateful that I had not been born into an age of public execution. That the world was safer and saner, the golden rule laminated, regarded and mounted on the door of my second grade classroom.
Why didn't you tell me it was only for children?
Out of a longing to posses your secrets I related to my neighbors maturely,
as you wished:
Trusting that connection runs deeper than compassion.
I believed dear Adulthood,
by your assuredness,
that you were incomprehensible because you had something great to offer.
You are an ocean of piousness.
I trusted your truths
that blanket all worlds in this world like moonlight.
Your knowledge may be questioned but never your validity:
you are known to the oldest; not the wisest but the most traditional.
A mystery to innocent wisdom. A sorrow to experienced wisdom...
What great wisdom has privileged you so?
To cease to examine things closely.
Oh Adulthood.
Time has deadened your senses.
It is old news to you.
How wonderful! How mature!
To drink your wine and taste it slowly,
Undelighted, unmoved.
And it is not only your face of convention that lacks luster.
For all whom you have taken have settled into you.
And long for their days of exploration.
Out there, in memory
Dormant and waiting for one internal glance
That would not become you dear Adulthood.
For the days of knowing are here.
You would laugh at youthful simplicity:
A child's campaign to end the war.
And yet you are silenced by the purity of the slave who asks for freedom,
And the monk who would burn peacefully.
Why do you trust in yourself what you seek to cure in children?
Dear Adulthood,
I forgive you.
And I will spend my life unlearning you.