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BECOMINGS Life is not easy. Nor predictable. No valid projection exists between The blind optimism of ignorant youth And the people we eventually become. Pollyanna was most of us Until we developed real concerns Uncommon to that figurative airhead ... For she was the fantasy of a life uninvolved, An Alfred E. Newman of wishful existence. As we progressed, and hard lessons Compromised that blissful existence, Reality was the pin For all such easy bubbles In the cauldron of maturity, pride and ego Became no less commodity than sex and ability We were summarily reduced, all of us, Lower than our glorious past could allow, and More constantly than imagined value could envision. We were robbed of that early illusion of worth, Too easily reinforced by our compatriots In that early fantasy ... And they were all gone, now, Firmly embedded in safer patterns of concession. We were alone, it was clear ... Those baby dreams were only silly, now, And had nothing to do with The We we'd become. We felt a certain vacuum in that awakening ... That if such early worth was now worthless Weren't we, too? our once most ardent supporters, Now denied that ancient bond and Seemed to consider us lepers or Venusians. They'd gone to another arena -- The consuming travail of their own lives And any illusions we might once have had In maintaining that early camaraderie Were now reduced to oblivion. 2 We could no longer deny thatThings were different -- our lives had changed. That early sense of value, self-worth, Required a new perception. All bets were off. Our universe had shifted, without warning, And our task was no less than to Replot the entire sky. Our every conception required analysis, For we were otherwise adrift on unfamiliar seas. It had to be done ... after denial, We conceded the point and got down to business. The closets were swept of what no longer applied. For some, this removal was voluntary; For others, eviction. We were left with almost nothing, For others' reinforcements Had always counted for so much. But they were no longer there. We had to move on, with no one left to save us ... Though we felt qualified least of all. No ribbons were awarded for survival then, When it really counted ... no medals On the chest long sunk by survival's challenge. For it was a time of transition To the self, alone, as leader ... and Some were still content to only follow. But those patterns had long ago been set, And most young sheep would become only older And more timid. A change occurred in some ... A new persona beyond early projection From the bassinet of naive ideals ... Some were monsters, now. The gauntlet of transition to adulthood Left many with scars that wouldn't heal And battered fragile egos into Unrecognizable shapes, casting Leaky boats adrift on seas of demon dreams. The irony, though, was poetic: That bookish, weird classmate, Without friend or alliance, That likeliest candidate for corruption Whom everyone imagined a future axe-murderer ... He was a corporate president, now; And the BMOC, that smiling, attractive, Wonderful friend and hero ... Was in a dark room, sharpening his blade ... |