Older

I’ve decided I don’t enjoy
getting older.

It’s not the age that worries me
or the ever closer
imminence of death.

Rather I miss the days of innocence,
when dreams reached past the sky and into the heavens
because the atmosphere wasn’t there to stop them.

When we believed we could fly
because gravity didn’t exist in our
dictionary

and impossible wasn’t in our
vocabulary.

Limitless became limited
dreams became goals
time became money.

Naïve is what they called us
but we were alive,
passionate;
our days had no ends
and
our sorrows were fleeting.

They forced the monochromatic
lenses over our eyes,
and stole away the beauty
of the natural world.

They put screens in front of our faces
and called them “good”
and cut down our tree houses
and dug up our playgrounds
and tore apart our books.

They burned our sundresses,
and threw our swim trunks in the trash
and told us that
“work was the new play.”

Naïve is what they called us,

but we were alive.

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