At Odds

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Where have we gone? Where have we been? And were we ever there "together?"

Submitted: August 21, 2012

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Submitted: August 21, 2012



At odds, at odds

To one another, they shout

One younger, one older

But neither therein wise

"You promised, you promised!" The younger voice screams

To deafen and despoil the older man's dreams

"What dreams, what dreams I have had!" The older voice dominates

With more relevevance, but less reverence

For what the younger man sees

"This is my time" Said the elder

"But what time?" Asked the younger

"What time is this? To be the man you promised you wouldn't become?" 

A flippant hand, an unflinching eye, and then the old man answered:

"I've become what I've become, to make better my life. To make safe my own legacy, to make whole my own security.

So too have I cast aside childish fancies as you would have me keep.
What good would they do me, what good? Tell me now!"


Insistent is the younger:

"You'd have your sense of imagination, your curiosity, your delight. How painful it is to live in your time, and know ones inquisitiveness sees no reward. 

Their ideas find no purchase, their ambition; no reward."

The older, but should not be feeling so old, still rebuked:
"But for you, who took no learnings seriously. Who balked when the time came to know more. Who are you to me? Are you not dead? Why have you returned?

Let me make my own money, let me live a life of leisure. Let me save, let me retire, let me be."

For the last time, perhaps now for a while, the younger receded into the darker recesses of an unkempt mind.

But before he went, he asked the older in a compassionate twang: "Where have we gone? Where have we been? And were we ever there together?"

And finally, the older had no answer. Had only himself to ask, as the child went away.

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