The Fence

It was said once ago it would be wise to forego

Immediate gratification and we should pass on the show.

We set our devices aside, and, we postponed that trip to fortuneland

But, we've watched all our ignorant peers come and go.

I'm not saying we're mindless, but, the art shouldn't think

We can calculate craft.  It just demeans and then sinks,

It's a risk we should have taken; though we thought plans would shield us

From impetuous writings we had to write, and, then sing.

So, I sit on the fence, with no writings to bear,

I may meet my grave insisting the player's weren't fair.

I may be on that fence when I'm 80.

The fence doesn't care.

Harsh thoughts and accurate, honest and fraught

With some conceded indiscretions perhaps, preceded by thought.

Guess we didn't know then; clearly haven't learned much by now

Guess we had expected, through this path we'd be taught.

Is this "fence" a thing that sits on the left or the right?

Does it want our creative, or logic to write?

Are there guests on either side of the fence?

Is there anyone there?

We may become such a victim of our past and our years

And, as each toll-bell birthday punctuates all such fears.

We are just getting agéd, and losing our podiums.

Now, we're just old, and our peers have no ears.

It has got us, if welcome and we lie and let die

What was meaningful then, and let those thoughts just pass bye.

We are relics, indeed, if we concede that this rusted fence

Won't allow us to sway to a side....