All the Old

All the old,

Fit the same mold.

Bitter and cynical,

In just the same way.

The innocence was eroded,

day by day.

To them the colors,

Only seem gray.

The hope they once had,

slipped away.

The young are different,

Pure like gold.

Before we force them,

To do what they’re told.

Their potential in infinite,

Like the carving stream.

Not stopping to ask,

If they’re allowed to dream.

But when they live in the world,

It’s impossible to stop.

Societies ways from seeping in,

And preventing the conditioning to finally win.

When their optimism,

is worn to the bone.

When it’s dark,

And they are all alone.

When there is no hope left to see,

That is when they turn old,

And become like you and me.