Sta.sh
Elusive quarry indeed.
Bright-faced youths may scamper
Endlessly
Through sunlit meadows full of fluttering
And yet, at end of day, return tired
Nets empty
But eager to try again, as children are.
What of those too old, or too slow?
They'll run too, or perhaps just watch.
The glittering prize, promised
And so often savoured in anticipation
Proves always out of reach.
Easy, after a while, to stop and rest.
Easy, later,
To forget those dappled hues and their dancing flight.
Retire, and pretend they never were.
Seek solace in other, greyer things.
Or remain forever haunted.
Gazing, maybe, at those more fortunate.
And in envy
Or in memory of sunny days long past
Their collections might sparkle yet.
Cold stillness belies their fate, in truth.
Dreams, pinned under glass.
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"Dreams pinned under glass." Wow.
your words transfix
a vision of a time
I'm fast approaching.
Can poetry be emo
when it speaks of the elderly, and to
the nightmares of the middle-aged?
----
You may be an emo teen, for all I know
I've never written a poetic response before, by the way. Your poem must have inspired me.
As for the 'emo' shtick, I'm only just out of my teens and perhaps oversensitive. Probably trying to cover up closet goth tendencies or something. Who knows? I'm certainly glad this poem came across as evocative rather than whiny, since the latter is definitely one of my pet peeves.