In a land of labels
Far from Justice's eye
Sit some wrestling ideals
that heed not fair cries

It's where the youth
go unpunished for lack of
Lackluster schemes and for
their crimes of misplaced dreams

None expects more from this trifling lot
Except that which culture had them begot

Critisicm's a medal rewarded with age
while true struggling artists
Are giv'n the bane
of deconstructive recognition
without the objective glance of a precognition


Look! Far beyond the middling horizon
This land's far from grace's real reaches
But not so far from our very own stretches

For stretch, we do not, from our very own limits
And tender age is a gift and a curse as well
For there is naught innocent in a young man's mind
And if there is aught in a young girl's mind it be this:
Dreams of a future far from her reach,
for society's crippled the miles she could breach

And this trifling isle lies far not beyond
Our own borders for here it is found:
It's the decade of the century,
The turn o' the tide
Where idle minds vie as they bide
Their years into minutes
Which shall soon leave them no rest
And maturity's learned at too old an age,

The young and resented remain in their depths
too crippled to get down from the stage of innocence
Which tender their ages and ignorant time had
hoisted them on without so much as a thought worth two pence.

01/27/2010