Poetry Compendium


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9. 20

There's nothing in it but 

A year. 
One count of three hundred and sixty five days 
Or less if you're not so lucky.

It was once thought 
That 'old' meant
'Good' 
'Ageing' meant 'wise'
And maturity came with a moustache 
Bald patch and in-grown hair. 

But twenty is that age where they throw you out, 
Pack up your trunk and haul it into the boot. 
Then they have you 
Tailing the car as it drives all your things
To the edge of a lake. 

Everything you've ever known
Is drowning beneath 
Sheets of murky brown 
And slime covered green.

And then, as in the Beginning, 
All that is left
You. 
You and the bones on your back. 

Twenty is the comfort 
Of childhood dreams no more
And not marked against the stature 
Of senior decision. 

At twenty you're free-wheeling 
Straddling mid-air 
Stumped on the well-travelled path 
But most likely, you're falling. 

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