The blank innocents,
weak but sheltered,
simple but worriless.
The roaring youth,
ignorant but joyful,
young but fearless.
The twenty-two year old philosophers,
smart but not wise,
young but not fearless.
The faceless others,
dominating or consumed,
ordering or complying.
Lives crossing one another,
a strike or a sting,
beats on as the heart pounds.
Young or old,
you or me,
that’s all there seems to be.
