Fluorescent, painful, ever so bright,
Wanting to retreat, yet pushed out into the cold,
Not yet ready to face the prospect of being one day, so old.
Sobbing, whimpering, finally bawling,
The child goes to sleep, not crawling.
Eager to join the ranks of the world,
He packs his materials of importance without being told.
Carrying words of wisdom of caring guardians,
Ready to confront, if need be, any barbarians.
All told, the man is feeling like honey,
Because today, he knows, is time to make some money.
The old man wakes up one bright day,
Clawing at nothing, unable to produce words to say.
His heart gives out, working so hard over the years,
No time to bid farewell to all those dear
To him, no resisting the return to the dust.
Now, the memory is held only in that earthen bust.
-January 19, 2001
