I am older an honored citizen
I think I know things, have some ken
If I  explain to youth my wisdom
I fear I deny them their revelry
And who wants to ruin that
And make them grow up.

Home is warm, not always feeling
That love known to so many
Children take for granted

A winter coat thick with it
A campfire burning bright with it
A known embrace held tight with it

The warmth known like birthday candles
Burning then extinguished suddenly
The eighteenth year, coldly, shown the door.

are you there?
how i long to know what rests beneath
your salt and pepper hair.
that behind
those goofy spectacles,
those crinkled eyelids,
those faded irises,
is a vault –
a treasure trove of wisdom.
i have crossed the pacific ocean,
cruised through antarctic waters,
wearing your fingers
around my wrist.
and still,
i lack the tools
to decipher the riddle of your being.
you have built me a sanctuary –
but forgotten to leave the key
under the doormat.
so I wonder who you are.
i fear that your spectacles will shatter,
your eyelids will do what they are meant to-
to cover your irises,
let them
fade
and wither,
and die.
and still,
i will not know you.

Help the aged
But not too much
For they weigh heavily
On the goverment’s budget
And on our conscience
And make us face
Our own mortality

Help the poor
But not too much
For they might think
They deserve better than this
And make us see
That petty philanthropy
Is pure hypocrisy

Help thy neighbor
But not too much
For there is no society
Just you and me
A collection of people
Just ordinary people
Trapped in individuality

Help your country
Above anything else
For there is honour
And glory to be found
Make the world see
And let them gasp
at our Grandiosity

And do help me
Above anything else
Vote and applaud loudly
Make this country great again
And help the aged and the poor
But don’t expect
Too much sympathy

All those laughters
Are not always real
All those faces in a park,
Wrinkled and weary,
Laugh in a circle,
Devoid of happiness,
No sign of a crinkle,
Eyes without light,
Devoid of life.

Their happy sadness echoes,
On the streets, in apartements,
The dismal vibes reach us
Yet they emanate the fake sentiments.

Stoop a little and evesdrop that circle,
They deceive emotions, black and purple,
All you hear is a shouting troop,
We know the truth of a laughing group.

Ambled ambitions,
an aching audacity;
aged adventurer.