PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

We had passed our youth in our
little gang of four, our tribe. But

the daylight of adulthood had come
and we knew that youth would die.

We will surrender in the morning.
So this night is our last of free air.

Drinking our wine, smoking
through the putrid dark air.

Swearing, laughing, sharing
rumours and stories, creating

memories we can take with us
as we approach the light of day.

The doors were shut tight, the
windows covered and we had taken

precaution to unhook the phone.
For this night was all for us, it was

ours to enjoy. Being and seeing the
swishing minds that were our thoughts.

We sat around a table, the four of us,
giggling, loving, having a grand time.

Too late to reconsider the coming day
or the fate that we were compelled

to answer. This night would be our
last a people of freedom, of not

getting along with the crowd of
bleating sheep we had scorned.

In the brilliance of the morning, in
the harsh glare of that sun, we would

cease our indifference to the shaking
laves of the trees. We would no longer

separate ourselves from the fountain
of humanity. For too long we had fancied

ourselves our own special group; our
own little game in a world of games.

In the morning, we would let ourselves
be torn by the conforming winds of

the zoo. Detach ourselves from one
another and pursue the yellowed fingers

of adulthood.It's been a time that it
has, but the clock has stopped.