Theft of the Present
Here I stand, body young, yet an old man. How dare you deign to live your life through me, with your tide of woes and sick-sweet perfect past?
You trample me as you grope to see through my eyes; to capture pure your once supposed bliss. You tell me these are the best years of my life, that life is at its peak, then of course you say for you it is no more. You make my life what it is not, then say there is no later hope. Which leaves me nothing. You desperately try to calm my beating wings, then add me to your fold when they are crushed. My Rome is burned, my Hitler crowned. My Atlantis remains lost forever. In your pride you have robbed me of what is mine. Hope, dreams, visions of a future that might have been bright. But you don't even notice, reminiscing as you coat my life in cheap golden paint. You speak of dreams, then remind me that they end. Why not let me live before reminding me I die?
This is how I feel: keep your cheap trinkets and your self-pity. Enjoy your life as I do mine, else take your empty memories and watch them turn to dust. As everything around you slow-decays. As you steal my present, and try in vain to escape what you have made my future.