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The Coming of Age

And so we hallucinate in a room of fogged mirrors,
Lost in the reverie of youthful exuberance,
It could be that we were lost to our own errors,
But maybe it’s the wisdom in the folly of our senseless runs.

The coming of age;
It is a thing which I’d rather waited.

In this drunken stupor, time is lost to us,
We at last succeed in seducing mistress time,
To slow down that we may step of the bus,
For what use in this haste to come of age.

The coming of age;
What is the brouhaha all about?

My hungry and destructive mind sits to contemplate about,
The untainted joy of innocent infants enjoying infancy,
My torrid youth chasing ladies that catch my fancy,
As I watch adults sweetly enjoy their adultery.

The coming of age;
Is it what they say it is?

Ours is a time of perceived invincibility,
We are mythological heroes and time is nemesis; hubris,
We can’t, we shan’t, we refuse to bow,
The coming of age, what is to be come of this age?

The coming of age;
There has to be a way out.

Oh, how I would that Michelangelo sculptured me in marble,
But he went the way of men and Pluto kept him there,
So the coming of age is a world of trouble,
And every day it nags and teases my phantom fears

*****October 10, 2009*****


I really can't remember what I was thinking about when I wrote this poem

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http://morganes-photographe.deviantart.com/
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The Vulture

In times of famine,
The Vulture does not eat grass.
When Leopards are lean
because antelopes nowhere to be seen
The Vulture sits and watches,
Waiting...

Those who mocked his baldness
Will do well to remember
None has seen the Vulture's corpse
And he is secure in the knowledge that none will.

So,
when it rains
And they mock him
For having no nest still,
He holds his peace,
Watching...
For the Vulture, he's a patient animal.

The Vulture is not vindictive,
Those who mocked will die,
Those who didn't will die,
It matters not.
For when carcasses lay ripe
The Vulture does not ask
If his feast was once friend or foe

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