Age

We the young, the souls bleeding fear,
stood, stooped and silent at the door of destiny.
Hoping, dreaming, beyond reality,
that we can become who we are,
and remain the innocence we once were.

Stepping through that ethereal doorway.
picture frame of the future in fractured fear
of its power.
Of our power.
Of our failure.

And grasping hope of avoidance
of the wreckage of the crumbling tower of age's responsibility.
Existing in fear of remembering,
that somewhere along our convoluted road,
we forgot to live.