Ethic of each early generation spike and
wrap around
and
sting and bleed and make tremble.
We became weak with expectation,
limp fulfillment unfilled. We are not your sons,
daughters,
although by blood,
of course.
We are new
and freshly faced, and driven.
Empty our cups of
ancestry, pour out the juices of old.
For together we are,
lonely, on the brink of
undecided paradise. Youthful nirvana,
we must make flight
jump the crumbled
cliff and fall
into the crisp blues
of water, harmony.