by Darren Horton

Created on: November 20, 2010   Last Updated: January 23, 2012

The older generation in their vanity of spirit
Assume that they are wiser than the next,
Thinking wisdom, like experience,
Comes naturally with age.

And the old with wasted years condemn our wasted days
Forever frowning, demanding that we smile
As though with smiles our youth immortalises theirs -
Of Olden Days
(The times of high morality)
The Golden Age
(Of working hard, and honesty)

And other such romantic drivel
That makes idealistic dreams seem tame.

And the old folks gently chuckle
That we don’t know what we want
But when we formulate ideas –
Such scorn!
And when opinions question theirs –
Such scorn!
What deserves, and what defence against, a sneer?

But still the young despair thinking on it, and with sighs
And sullen faces, anger older folk who feel themselves abused by it,
Who, pretending that they know the way, declare
“Respect thy elders”
Which can be a vile phrase
If injustice bites for lack of age.

It’s true that on occasion one may leave the herds
Whose words are welcomed as they welcome words.

But most are only elderly with age.

Perfectly healthy
Like every other page of human history.
Perfectly empty
Content to shrug at every mystery.

To voluntarily stagnate around the fifteenth year
As the body grows, the intellect not used, does not, and stops;
To spin forever constant in an instability of changes;
Lost between the pre and post-pubescent stages
To judge with bias
Hate…Because?
And to wallow in the swamps of childish rages.

To set themselves a stage to preach from,
Thinking everything they think is true, is true
And educated cowards thinking yes, say no, thinking no, say yes.

And the old folks gently chuckle
At the ones who ponder peacefully
On the riddles of life, it’s purpose, and its death.

And the old folks gently chuckle
At the naivety of it, and laugh amongst themselves -
Against themselves.  For they too
Had sometime briefly paused upon a similar strain of thought
Then quickly chose, to not
Or had indifferently forgot.

Thus the Book of the Dead is filled with empty pages
As the ink of entries disappears with distant memories,
And so a thousand dead men’s minds are vanished in a blink
With a thousand living men’s, whose die before they think.

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