It’s seven in the evenin’
This day’s done, my years are leavin’
Our culture rots thro’ powers deceivin’
The young are hanging, our people are grievin’
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The Loss
In a chaotic world of empty ideas and parent’s beds lacking the warmth of the other side, it is a dangerous time for the plastic nature of one’s being and belief structure to be trying to navigate this desert of broken ideas and malignant plans. Substance of experience is now, in the myth of eternal progress and the new equating to better, considered stale and lacking nourishment. The elders of this day are cast aside much like last year’s iPhone. Mountains of experience and the overcoming of struggle is now being blown like a handful of sand into the wind, a wind which is at our face; the sands and crystals of generational wisdom is blown behind us, forgotten to those who march blindly toward the ever advancing ‘goal’ of progress. Whereas before the castles built with the fine-sands of a thoroughly-lived life were handed down to tomorrow’s holders of wisdom, to be cared for, built on and inhabited, now they are merely left to fall to the wind that is taking the lessons learned and casting them to the darkness of the already trodden path. The arrow of the world points only one way, forward – always forward. Man’s thread to the still-with-us memories of those who have come before has been severed, diminishing those to, at best the once-were, and at worst the wholly forgotten. We no longer dwell in our parent’s castle.
By Keith Kennedy7 years ago in Poets
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