The Youth Of Today. (A Forfeited Identity)

Of all the queues of hopeful yearning,
the one I most dread standing in,
undulates serpeantile on meadows turning
lifeless grey with the silence grim.
Redounds every now and then a shout,
“stand in line you, stand in line,
bare not a countenance that holds a doubt,
what is yours is mine, yours is mine”,
and in these aisles of ashen dreams
where darkness holds its last sanctuary,
drip effulgent the glorious beams
and light the bloody pools of treachery.
The youth of now drowns as we speak,
holding hands of the lifeless old,
as the closing doors can only creak
while a tragic fate must now unfold.
The voice of spring, youth of a nation
made to wait while verdure abates,
most of them prey to dispassion
as patient fools face misanthropic gates.
How many curtains must be drawn on you?
my hopeful friend, my faithful friend,
how many dreams must you bid adieu?
for this is today, and is this the end?
But who am I, to condescend with pity,
when myself I am but waiting all the while
shuffling feet on the dirt, and prithee
an ocean of hopefuls moving single file.
With every moment my fading visage,
with every bruise my servile bow,
makes me as the youth of this age,
a thoughtless face, a hopeless brow.
I worry not for the days I stand
regardless how indignant it may be,
but if my love were to hold my hand
I dare say, she may not discern me.