Old man
I can see your future
And it troubles me.
Where is the drive,
Spirit of adventure, the sense of possibility?
Young man
You don’t see me,
Merely a distorted reflection
Of the way things were.
Your mess sits on my plate.
Old man
My mess sits on my plate.
Your rose garden is on hold.
My sympathy is conditional.
Freud died. You have choices.
Young man
I’m told there were blue skies
And people saw beyond their shadows.
Optimism abounded.
My GPS can’t locate the path.
Old man
Yes there are fewer flowers,
And the noise level precludes dialogue.
You're tasked with finding Gaia,
We lost her in Eden.
Young man
I am hungry and you speak of flowers.
You condemn me for being in the pit you dug.
My direction may be predestined,
But you’ve afforded me little understanding.
Old man
Can I teach you?
Is there something I’ve learned
That might be of value
Or does my hubris forestall insight?
Young man
Your failures, not your successes,
May inform a better outcome.
Be quiet and move aside,
So I may build my own golden city on the hill.
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