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To All the Grown Up Children
The magic of childhood is in their denying;
(Youth doesn’t know that it is defying;
Knots that will take a lifetime untying).
Given the gift of an unwritten slate;
To write what they wish, before it’s too late.
They all speak their minds, unfettered and free;
Cloaked in convictions of how things should be.
Beneath their bravado a child lies uncertain;
Powerless, hiding behind ego’s curtain!
Youth owes to no one! And no one owes you!
No debts (and no leverage to make dreams come true).
Only when laden with trade-offs and barters;
Can we negotiate uncharted waters!
Absent of scars from the marks of life’s battles;
Beauty is all youth can offer as chattel.
Those who suspect that youth/'/s gifts may fade;
Are wont to choose camps before the charade;
Of eternal perfection begins to degrade.
If given a choice, would you rather stay;
Here with your wisdom in tattle tale grey?
Or take back your youth and lose all you know;
Hoping to reap so much more than you sow?
Your answer depends on your joy or your sorrow;
It changes today, and again on the morrow.
It/'/s part what you have; and part what you/'/re wanting.
Half golden future; Half dusty hauntings!
Lest we sit teetering here on the brink;
Perhaps life is wiser than most of us think;
For penning us all in indelible ink!
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