Among the wise I was young;
among the wisdom of sages speaking
their defeated dreams, standing to ruin
the day and the purpose of this stealth.

Wind never said what politics could have moaned;
embraced within a song, this craft of men
whose knowledge of time was impatient,
succumbing to the time thus known.

Leaves fell, and looking where we trod
only the mush of the mud could say
where feet had taken us.
We are drawn here to where there is belief.

I believe I cried.

A moment dropped the seed
from which has grown this future,
at the behest of which
my youth has passed,
and with it, wisdom come.

Now can I be mad,
and moan what politicking has ruined?
An ebb and tide of life and youth
and sustainability of an age?

Ha! I bask in rage

A worse evil than all known, this politicking I bemoan
for it is the unbegotten promise to fulfill
every man’s lust when it is each who must
sing their own praise,
and walk the mud that leads to the wise,
and frees one from disbelief.

I believe it now.
Faith in others to control my future;
others:
not the wise,
but the greedy;
not the unsung,
but the well paid.

Thus has
future been denied.