A grownup is an adulterated child.
That minute curl of blood red flesh
Which beckons time, a bent forefinger out of fate
Which will inflate and burst its shell
With that primal shriek to reply to destiny
In fear and disgust at what must occur
To protest predetermination.
It is the first prod towards death that comes
With that initial intake of breath.
That shock retreats behind the mist of forgetfulness.
Sunshine and warm milk suffice, a device to ripen
Potentials foreordained to prepare
A life of, perhaps, thirty thousand days or more,
And then, a summation to the score.
Fingers, toes, two ears, two eyes and a nose,
Suppose there are fragrances, hues, surfaces
To explore, day and night when bird choruses
Compete with frogs and crickets to amuse
When all else floods in to confuse.
These initials pass, integrate from morass
To separate and classify, identify as plus and minus
To formulate and design us.
Minds are terrorized early on by petrified commands
To channel doubts, monument the social absolutes
That chain a brain to tradition and pulverize basic sense
To doubt and question odd commodities of social bent.
Each of us alive must thrust our lives to accommodate demands.
A bird must fly, a fish must swim, a blade of grass lunch on Sun.
Were I a chicken I could not fly, but fate could well dictate my end
On a plate beside a serving of French fry.
Thus matured we all end cured of significance endured.
Our lives contrived of circumstance, of pluck and luck,
But mostly chance.
No need to plead on greed, or cruelty, or the eternal silliness
That infects humanity.
Brief moments that our lives contain
Will pass, since all of us, at end, remain