Innocence

Innocence
By:  Caitlyn Vasquez

Who knew back then what we would do now.
Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young.
We are all in some smothering dream you too could pace
Our innocent past has floated away down a mythological river
whose name begins with a L as far as you can recall.
The loniness overwhlems us,
so we sing sin,
and I all alone beweep my outcast state.
Poetry used to be a santuary,
something people could relate too,
but now all they want too do is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
Our grandparents or forefathers probably look at us and say,
you don't think I suffer after I held my pain so long?
When we sing sin, everything anyone ever built for us in the past
is wasted down a sea of thoughts. 
But what can they do? 
There's no more to build on there.  Who knew that the young would be the old,
and that the old would be the young. 
The young die faster than the old.
So they, since they were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
Our past is our father, and you, my father, there in the sad height,
curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.