Infant Decade: Prologue

The Future is a wild tempest, full of grace, poetry. But the quills are still underneath the rubble of the past.

Stricken with delight, blithe, effervescent,

Round the cherrytop fire skate lovers present

at the crowning of morrow, the midnight prayer

for change, as renaissances rape the stilled hiver

and vulture fodder children, lost and vanquishéd

by yesteryear will bushel into leaders, thinking men,

lovers nude to bathe their wisdom in the seas,

lovers drenched of Eden's rouse, veiled in its lees.

lovers awed to nestle in the universe again.

The riots and rebellions crest in sonic pyre,

travel nationwide on skeletal telephone wires

bouncing off isolated Russian satellite debris

to shut the shades on old hat, past debauchery

and O'! How rapping, rapping, on my cobweb zest

as feral sprites ingest the abyssal, chartless west

Upon the Novus Annum, lustful of the new world's verity

and vined of resolutions, lost to mirthful reverie!

The skies return to daylight, evening being blessed.

 

But alas! Robust though we to taste the warping, future sooth,

Be wary of the year that spawned us from its slovenly roots;

We shall bury the dying age in retrospect.

Author's Note

Welcome to the new year, my bards. It's a prospect worth exploring. It's glorious, it's sensual, it's mysterious and enrapturing, and it's us who will mold it. It's us, products of the dying year, who will mold it. I see it fit to honor what's hit us in the past, windfalls and tragedies, personal and macrocosmal. So here it begins. :)