Directions

They are given a box of faded crayons,
An outline of a picture;
Given all the freedom within a stencil,
Told not to colour out of the lines

They are up before the sun;
A weight upon their slumped shoulders,
As they learn to think inside a concrete box,
And trained to look forward

They hang their heads low,
Bowed towards open books;
Their eyes, underlined with shadows,
Look towards a brighter future

They stare up at the metal-scraped sky
And begin to climb upwards,
In search of a convenient deity,
A higher being than themselves

They reach the lonely peak,
Where their childhood dreams converged,
See nothing but a pretty view
And nowhere to go but down.

This is the age of poetry

This is the age of poetry
Which doesn't make sense
Where people of the imperfect present
Speak in future perfect tense
Where people sing of world peace
And shout for worldly war
Where people spit on stone
Hold up paper, and call it law
Where people scream so loudly
They can't hear what they're saying
Where people sleep, with closed eyes
And dream instead of praying