Missives From a Pessimist
My youthful friend, when I was a lad
such as you, I was dismayed to find
that running a stick across the lathes of a fence
did not make music.
My hopes were the regular beat of a stick
on slats would compose a song.
It scratched the bright, white paint of the pickets,
it oscillated my hand,
it made a noise equal to the rhythm
of my steps but it did not make music.
Remember this sad story, my young fellow,
so that you too will learn;
life’s expectations should not be too splendid
for I fear you will find it is the only
means by which your disappointments
are diminished.
Copyright © Mike Samford | Year Posted 2008
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