Pogiforce-14
EV/IV Trainer
- 6,159
- Posts
- 20
- Years
- Age 36
- Magma Colosseum
- Seen Feb 23, 2009
A free written poem that airs out my personal fears for the future. There is some metaphor in here that you may recognize.
Fears For the Future
I once found this little warehouse one the corner of Fourth and Main. Inside many people gathered, and there they would talk. They did not fear the retributions of normal society. They spoke their mind and did so with pride. Each conversation would be around tables, where notes were kept so that one could return later. Boxes were kept on the wall for each person for more personal messages from person to person. In the back one could sign up for these discussions, and get their own box on the wall.
I had placed my box between two others, and immediately began to take part in talk. I found happiness there, speaking with kindred spirits and making new friends. At one table we played a game, taking on the role of someone else, when someone joined the table. She was an angel in our game, and in her own right as well. I grew to love her, and we talked often. We discussed what future may hold, and what hopes we had for it. All the while we took part in the conversations. Life there was the best. Then as I grew older, it was time to leave for college. I could only hope that one day soon I would return.
Time passed. I graduated, and I grew. But life was not so generous to me. Things became harsh and unforgiving. Finally after much hardship and little happiness, I found my way back to that little warehouse on the corner of Fourth and Main. I pushed the doors open, looking forward to the bright lights and conversation. What I found was desolation. Tables were left empty, papers were yellow and covered with dust. A single woman was there, writing at one of the tables. I could only imagine what she was doing. Finished with her note, she folded it up and put it in one of the boxes, still hanging from the walls. Then she walked past me, glancing at me slightly before the doors closed behind her. I walked up to the box within which she had placed her note and was surprised to see it was my own. I reached inside and pulled out the crisp white paper. The message was short and brought tears to my eyes.
I?ve moved on.
Suddenly I recognized the face that I used to know so well, and I ran back out into the glaring bright light, wanting to explain, to tell why, to beg for forgiveness and ask for another chance. But it was too late. She was gone. I no longer had anything to live for. Life had chewed me up and spat me out. I was a man who died of a broken heart.
The paper probably spoke of a body outside that old warehouse on the corner of Fourth and Main. The News probably did too. And when they carved my grave stone, this is probably what it said: In his youth, he had it all. Then his future took it.
Fears For the Future
I once found this little warehouse one the corner of Fourth and Main. Inside many people gathered, and there they would talk. They did not fear the retributions of normal society. They spoke their mind and did so with pride. Each conversation would be around tables, where notes were kept so that one could return later. Boxes were kept on the wall for each person for more personal messages from person to person. In the back one could sign up for these discussions, and get their own box on the wall.
I had placed my box between two others, and immediately began to take part in talk. I found happiness there, speaking with kindred spirits and making new friends. At one table we played a game, taking on the role of someone else, when someone joined the table. She was an angel in our game, and in her own right as well. I grew to love her, and we talked often. We discussed what future may hold, and what hopes we had for it. All the while we took part in the conversations. Life there was the best. Then as I grew older, it was time to leave for college. I could only hope that one day soon I would return.
Time passed. I graduated, and I grew. But life was not so generous to me. Things became harsh and unforgiving. Finally after much hardship and little happiness, I found my way back to that little warehouse on the corner of Fourth and Main. I pushed the doors open, looking forward to the bright lights and conversation. What I found was desolation. Tables were left empty, papers were yellow and covered with dust. A single woman was there, writing at one of the tables. I could only imagine what she was doing. Finished with her note, she folded it up and put it in one of the boxes, still hanging from the walls. Then she walked past me, glancing at me slightly before the doors closed behind her. I walked up to the box within which she had placed her note and was surprised to see it was my own. I reached inside and pulled out the crisp white paper. The message was short and brought tears to my eyes.
I?ve moved on.
Suddenly I recognized the face that I used to know so well, and I ran back out into the glaring bright light, wanting to explain, to tell why, to beg for forgiveness and ask for another chance. But it was too late. She was gone. I no longer had anything to live for. Life had chewed me up and spat me out. I was a man who died of a broken heart.
The paper probably spoke of a body outside that old warehouse on the corner of Fourth and Main. The News probably did too. And when they carved my grave stone, this is probably what it said: In his youth, he had it all. Then his future took it.