I can recall the way the morning dew sits on the fresh budding flowers in spring.
Ignorant to the winter that melted away before them they grow towards sun.
Youth have a unique talent of being able to stare directly into the sun.
They know-it-all while remaining  empty and full of angst.
The cold heart of youth keeps them bold and detached.
In the summer their necks are bent and their spines are crooked.
The youth are feeble, vain, and gullible.
They are easily swept away by the first wave of interest.
They drown in love and vices.
They fantasize about their celebrity
And they love to hate any flowers that lived through the winter before them.

Just you wait till the world pollinates you.
The world hangs above you like an Acne anvil suspended into the ether.
When autumn comes it will fall and explode on them like dreary dark piñata filled with children, debt, taxes, and new displeasures that no one ever warned them about.
The world will pluck every petal off you one by one
"They love, they love me not, they love me, they love me not".
Then the clouds will stroll in.
And winters first snow will began to shimmy down and settle on every stem.