The Fifth Phase
...The wee ones simply want to be loved.
Or at least get a glimpse from
a {smart}phoned adult.
They wish for a sandbox with a playmate or two.
A warm peaceful bath
every bubble filled with
a fairy and a laugh.
They live for a favorite bedtime story.
A Nite light glowing= angelic reassurance...
That boogeymen are not under the bed...
or hovering above innocents.
Teen beings obsess over sex.
freedom for a greener planet.
They pray to put as much distance.
Between themselves and the love of parents.
They've a barge filled with mac and cheese dreams.
Soon learn the cataracts of reality
They fancy to strap a jet pack to time.
Churn fire and ice -ride the bucking flanks of night.
Swig the universe with a twist of risk and turn of lime...
They often obsess about the brief blackness in their minds.
The diamond of childhood lost in the slag heap of time.
Prime time people want to shake the world.
make it big
raise a family
have a ball
fill the bucket
do it all
super mom
super dad
shooting rapids
just above the falls...
They have it all
a frantic yard
standing tall
picket fences
lined with
sweaty kids
beer bellied roosters
perfumed hens
a happy pool
filled with clowns and mayhem.
Those sweetened days weren't supposed to end.
but they always do.
Looking back, they only had part time friends.
and that once clingy ruby throated brood
and their infinite shades of blue...
want nothing more to do with them.
Now the prime timers yearn for that quiet hour.
Void of drama - when cherries lie still and never howl.
They want that elusive cryptid called a mundane life.
Wishing they could hug their parents...one last time.
but a spray of flowers draped over a date stone, will have to suffice.
The patina folk yearn for companionship.
Counting down the days to the next visit
as soon as the last one ends...
They no longer wish for fame and riches.
Only pray for a day free of pain and sickness.
They try to muster the will and strength.
To skip a stone into the smirking face of time.
They hang onto daisy chain and butterscotch memories...
They more often dwell on death.
The afterlife or lack thereof.
They're overflowing with wisdom, but socially undernourished.
Pushed to the fringe of society.
It is no matter- nobody was really listening.
They often whisper to God and a once upon a time love....
but neither one responds.
Copyright © Anthony Biaanco | Year Posted 2021
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