An Ode to the Young
I gaze upon the two-year-old.
So young, so full of potential.
Once I was that small, that bright-eyed,
That pliable of spirit.
He looks out with such great wonder
And amazement at what he sees.
The mundane and magical are
Splendid to the youthful eye.
What great seeds are being planted
In his ripe, tiny cranium?
What may come of his formless dreams,
Still filled with vague whims of thought?
Will he become a pioneer
Tackling his own unknown future?
Shaped to solve all life's big problems,
Help all of humanity?
Better he be braced against the
Cruel fate of his probable life.
Low expectations help divert
The pain of being nothing.
What hope is left for our good youth
If all that remains for our lives
Is to plan for the coming of
A bleak unwelcome future?
Now his face is pure joy and bliss
To mirror his innocent heart.
Will he be taught to join the flock
Or break society's mold?
The choice is in our tainted hands
To guide him on his shaky path
Through the jungles of crippling doubt
Toward the end of mankind