The older I get
the harder it becomes to
carry heavy hearts.
Young hearts are heavy
these days of heatwaves, flooding
and fires of war.
My own heart has slowed,
unable to speed or race,
beating a steady pace.
The young run shouting,
fueled by alcohol and fun,
circling around me.
I try to tell them,
straighten your path toward the goal,
a race to be won.
I shout from the sidelines
loss of freedom is gaining
on you, as you play.
Age carries no weight.
My words tossed away as trash,
as victory fades fast.
Woke becomes useless
for the young who sleep too late.
Please, now, come awake!
annarino writes 