Wreathing

 
When we were young, every wreath  
Was a holiday decorating our wonder  
Years with wish covered doorways  
Molded by family and special teachers  
 
Whose knowledge transferred  
From a hierarchy of Love through  
Blood or kindred bond. Connected  
By historical roots, these dark-haired  
 
Guides of yesteryear were book-smiths  
Bearing darker eyes and kind smiles.  
Their wisdom paired lessons with each  
Individual ability to scale the mighty  
 
Mountain of penmanship into a syntax of  
Dense meaning until reaching a story book  
Of paragraph. As children, we underestimate
The value of the adventure we're assigned.  
 
Ever forward into adulthood and freedom  
To choose our own lessons, we leave  
Behind legacies of growth for higher  
Institutes of learning across continents  
 
And distant countries abroad, packing  
Only what we want to take with us;  
Needing nothing from the world but the  
Clothes on our back and Air in our lungs.  
 
As we learned the dictates of expression  
Under the direction of new mentors,  
Our lives evolved into a becoming of  
Adult forced to honor regretful choices.  

Our lives become not our own except
Through dreams locked within ourselves,
Huddled around the tiny flame of barely
Burning inspiration guarded by hope.
 
When we were young, every wreath  
Was magic hanging holidays with peace  
And joy, all ye faithful, merry gentlemen,  
And we mustn't forget Peter rabbit too.  
 
As we age they take on different nuances  
Of loss and condolences. It is then we grasp  
For what we've been taught, for meaning  
From the chaos of unwanted circumstance.  
 
All our lives we thought we knew everything,  
Until we grew up to swallow another's grief,  
Understanding nothing of its bloody hands  
Smearing across the eyes of those we love  
 
With blinding pain. It's then we realize what  
We've lost to this world for good, knowing  
All that's left to offer through the empty void  
Is all we've learned wreathed into a poem.  
~