Generations

It was once in some far-off place

That the old would feather their nests,

And the young screamed in frustration,

Rattling the shackles of their cage,

While the middle-aged could afford

To lie back, safe in the knowledge

That their routine would get no worse.

A child, turning its twitchy gaze,

Is certain, in its innocence,

That its life will mine some marvels.

The unborn and the unconceived

Know nothing, officially,

But still have reason to suspect

That what happens there, happens here.

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Comments

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Stephen Gospage

Thu 6th Oct 2022 21:51

Thanks for your lovely comment, Holden. I really appreciate it.

Holden Moncrieff

Thu 6th Oct 2022 17:50

A beautifully profound poem, Stephen! I loved the lines:
"A child, turning its twitchy gaze,
Is certain, in its innocence,
That its life will mine some marvels." 🌷

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Stephen Gospage

Wed 5th Oct 2022 21:48

Thank you Frederick, Ruth Tom and Steve for liking this one.

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