An Ode To Youth

With this ashen tongue,
I compose an ode to you,
you Youthful and Innocent,
you entirely Ignorant.
An ode to your shining eyes-
round and Inquisitive
How I hope the world does not mar them,
how I hope you stay well.
With this ode I perpose a toast,
a toast to your small frame,
and to your sacred skeleton-
shrouded in the fat and fluff of Youth.
Let us toast to your existance,
to those small lungs that heave and hoe,
and to the softness of your skin,
to all that you do not know.

I perpose a toast to Innocence,
for all lovely things stem from its brilliant bloom,
and I perpose a toast to Forever-
to ward off its inevitible Doom,
for I would hush these words from the wind,
pluck them from the sky,
if it meant you would keep your Innocence,
till the moment that you die.
Let me perpose this toast to Loveliness,
for it seems you are its only begotten son,
and a shame it would be if your credit for this were none.
I compose a toast to Language,
for it is a thing of Beauty too,
but how I wish it were a thing-
never to be inflicted on you,
for sticks and stones may break the bones,
but all those wounds will heal,
but every slice this is the price,
of a lashing tongue,
will bleed forever on your heart,
till You and Wound are one.

So I compose this ode to Loneliness,
for it is a thing I know so well,
and even in a crouded room, into its pit I fell.
There is no ground to leap or bound,
you just dance upon the air,
and I hope you know that with this ode,
I do not mean Despair.
For Loneliness is a flower, that blooms and dies and blooms,
it is not a trap, but a conscious act,
that holds no Terror, no Doom.
Praise the one who sits alone, that is my ode to you.
And praise the sky that in your eye-
reflects its shining blue,
for some may lie and tell tall tales,
that Madmen me believe,
of trumpets and angels and a world of pleasantries,
for Madmen believe the most peculiar things.
But in your eye reflects the sky, its brilliant shining blue,
and when we die- as all we must,
that sky will not change,
and in your ear, you will not hear the sound of Angels Wings.
This is an ode to sweet Repose,
to that thing that keeps us ill,
and I hope to all that lives-
that is a thing you will not feel,
for when the sky that bends above us,
becomes a thing we cannot kill,
something dies within the heart,
and death does not heal.

With this ashen paper tongue so rough,
I compose this ode to You,
to You, your gleaming Innocence,
that priceless breath of air.
I hold in you too many thoughts-
too much room for Despair,
for in you I see Humanity Distilled,
you are so Pure, so Clean,
and I would hate to see you do-
a single shameful thing.
I would hate to see you in a room-
with those you do not love,
but feeling you must save your face-
refuse to rise above.
I would hate to see your face grow long-
as it does with Ill-content,
and hear words that spill from your lips-
say words you never meant.
I would hate to find that in your eyes-
nothing Pure remains,
for then my heart, and then my soul would rip with sorrows pains.

I compose this ode to You my love,
for as of now you are Pure,
and as for what tomorrow brings,
no man is ever sure.
How I hope the world does not mar you,
oh how I hope that you stay well,
with this toast I conclude my ode to you,
I bid my sencere Farewell.

Yours truly, for evermore!