New Age
We must run with horses
We have never been this age before. We are but children crying wisdom— Either us or they who demand it.
What child is born knowing to run? Yet once they learn to crawl, We expect them to fly with the wind.
So we study the racers who've already placed, Aping their form but forgetting At a hundred, they were foolish boys and girls.
And what hope left For the twisted, Broken folk we are
When our glowing, golden great-uncles Could not, in all their perfect glory, know it themselves?
I demand pride and honor of myself— all things considered. We've stumbled and scraped,
But still have our legs. Still running and pumping As desperately as ever.
I see the line ahead, and the man with the confetti A finish the gods of the ether Will never know.
Take my hand, My love. Forgive me.
Let's cross together And claim the honor Gifted not for perfection,
But for those Who ran long. Who ran faithful.
Though never having been this age before.