On Tiptoe
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Innocence dies in a world that's corrupt,
addicted to sin
and thrill, of the win;
where suppressed emotions spew and erupt.
Although naught is said:
innocence is dead.
And as children prepare for reality
trading fantasy dreams for hyperbole:
time chases its shadow.
An adolescent adrenaline rush,
sets you free at last.
No longer harassed,
you are the artist, and life is your brush.
Loving all you see,
your world looks pretty.
And yet, the strain of existence takes its toll
subconsciously, weighing the worth of your soul:
time chases its shadow.
As old age creeps like a thickening fog
your tongue tastes like dirt,
and your muscles hurt:
feeling outdated as a catalog.
A frustrated youth
you searched for the truth:
it's hard to believe you were once that naive.
And although it'll soon be time for you to leave:
it's doubtful anyone will notice or grieve.
Time chases its shadow
silently, on tiptoe.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2020
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