are holding hands.
I think
they think they are
in love,
in the eye
of a glorious storm,
with aisles of x’s
in text messages,
a wink that suggests
anywhere but here
is better.
The babies of
this century,
maked-up more
than the generation before,
flecks of snow
in a blizzard
of pimples and kisses,
condoms and phones.
There is no jealousy,
just a shift in the times,
a jolt in the system
of snotty noses and whispers.
They look happy, at least.
Love, or something like it,
a blossom in their lungs.
Now, I wonder,
walking,
if they know what comes.
Jan 9, 2018
Jan 9, 2018 at 6:43 PM UTC
are holding hands.
I think
they think they are
in love,
in the eye
of a glorious storm,
with aisles of x’s
in text messages,
a wink that suggests
anywhere but here
is better.
The babies of
this century,
maked-up more
than the generation before,
flecks of snow
in a blizzard
of pimples and kisses,
condoms and phones.
There is no jealousy,
just a shift in the times,
a jolt in the system
of snotty noses and whispers.
They look happy, at least.
Love, or something like it,
a blossom in their lungs.
Now, I wonder,
walking,
if they know what comes.
Written: January 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time - feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
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