old youth
old, frail and ghostly are they –
homes and fields so green, they revive youth.
when memories held captive in minds,
fall over like a warm blanket and
hold you close to the ground, with
the weight of golden smiles and black words.
‘these are your roots‘, they say.
‘through flesh, bone and grime
have you walked,
and roots are never forgotten, friend mine‘.
as your rabbit-hole turns chaotic when
people so many, yet to be met,
and stories that never lived past the first draft –
linger in the air,
with no wonderland at the end.
in search for an eye that
sees without looking,
for strangers’ glances
that rewrite conclusions –
such versatility is that
which propels us through it all.
fair and long is
the path that leads to the heart, friend.
riddles unanswered and questions left
stand guard, to
the story that writes itself home.
old, frail and ghostly are they –
homes and fields so green, they revive youth
that ages like fine wine.
“And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.”
― Stephen Chbosky, The Perks of Being a Wallflower
Thoughtfully yours,
D
the above poem was a rather impulsive write and I meant it as a superimposition of youth on old age or vice-versa, a drawing of parallels of sorts. there’s no fixed interpretation or intention, so please feel free to make of it what you will! I’ve been thinking quite a bit about growth and what it means to grow old and this poem just happened with some experimenting on punctuation, haha! hope you had a good read!
Originally published on https://myrandomspecificthoughts.wordpress.com/2022/02/20/old-youth/
