The youth have charged us by storm
You soul is soft, weathered, yet tough.
Even though the thread is thin
We hold tight with a fatal grip.
After prolonged, inevitable erosion
It would make sense to simply let go.

To paint the line we’ve created
A string must measure the length
Of how much time it’s been
To find the end of the string
Is one no soul keeps in mind.
All we unconsciously ache for
Is the end of the line.

How sad that is.