Poem: Birth-day

[sherlockian_syn]

We think only of the quiet nights
as the party rages on without us.
The only tolerable place,
a staircase.
Remember when things were different?

As if we had changed.

Lying on the steps,
our spines spanning both the past
and the present. We have heard
that history repeats itself. Yet
no one seems to grasp the lesson.

The bass thumps to the beat
of our hearts, begging us to stay.
Loud enough to drown out
the sound of remembering.
Guttural cries in memoria.

Our growth is stunted.
Becoming elders,
with the hearts of children.