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All Things Pass Away.
Someday, I will own a mountain, and then I will stand on top and look out over my domain. Then shall I release it, to own it no more.

What right do we have to take so beautiful a life, and keep it as our own?
Caged as the little birds on my stoop, no longer able to fly-for the golden bars surrounding
In what time, does a child leave behind the bouncing red balls and May Poles of hope?

When all that innocence is, is forsaken and left like yesterdays broken toy?

Forgotten are the children, the innocent hate of our future.
They are now corrupted by sanity's greed.
Insane vessels, shattered in the hands of careless jokers.
Do you remember that game?
The one we played as children.
We would hop from space to space, our goal so simple as to find the stone we so gaily flung from our small hands.

Hop-Hop-Catch Your Balance-Hop-Skip-Hop!

Those daydreaming memories, so far from this place we frequent now.
Our goals so shallow, far fetched, just like that dull lifeless stone as our youth worshipped.
We can not go back, as adults we know this.
Into the hands of fate we have been flung- some with control over where they will land.
Others, at the mercy of a jesting destiny.

Yet, as friends we try and hold onto that memory, finding a gathering place in a web of false strength.
In our listless solitude and gaily appointed tasks, sometimes, sometimes we stop just long enough to offer a knowing glance and wise shoulder to those who come after.
After all, we have been in the same place as they trod now, haven't we?

Howa my friends, it is good.

Learn more about this author, Isadora Pandora.
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