Better that your dream dies young,
its promise as yet unfulfilled,
a youthful willow Juliet
to your enamored Romeo,
than that it live until old age,
when riddled through with cancer scars,
its cracked voice jaded with regret,
it makes your life a nursing home
where you both wait
to meet the grave.
Better that your dream dies young;
so you can shake your head and laugh
when those who posture, pose and preen
still with the vanity of hope
(which is religion for the young)
expound upon their charted course,
imagining the world will care.
Better that your dream dies young,
instead of sadly lingering on,
its beauty faded, spine curled in,
and what was once a lucid wit
reduced to shriveled memory.
Let it go in your youth,
while you still have enough time
to mourn, and move on.
27 NOV 2007
Leave a comment