The Misfortune of Eternal Youth
A Poem
Everyone worships at the fountain,
but not for as long as I did.
This is the misfortune of eternal youth;
this is the ruin of me.
Some people are tourists of youth,
but some of us are old money,
some of us have been here years.
Tumbled doesn’t always mean polished,
I’m still so rough around my edges.
I remember in the corner,
I had a rock collection.
Wish I could see it again.
I remember I could talk to my friend
through the gap in the trees.
The misfortune of eternal youth is that
you’ve kept all of the restless,
but none of the hope.
The misfortune of eternal youth is that
the things that you want
don’t exist anymore,
and you miss them like honeysuckle.
Everyone worships at the fountain,
but not for as long as I did.
Everyone worships at the fountain,
but not for the span of a life.
