The fire of youth, enraged and wild,
The first steps out from the shaded child,
Into the waiting jaws of men,
That dying dreams may live again.
Minds are cradled, knives are drawn,
Cutting a path for the blazing dawn,
Journeys begun without a choice,
Following after their master’s voice.
Shaped and formed, then set in line,
Taught to march to the drummer’s time,
Pawns sent out in open fields,
Unprepared to face what’s real.
The fire burns on wasted fuel,
Half-filled tanks—a gift from school,
Obeying orders from high command,
Left to sink in slipping sands.
Groomed to fight another’s war,
Offered as sacrifice for the cause,
Spared from all that might offend,
Now stranded, lost, abused and spent.
And nothing changes, nothing falls,
The fence is raised around the halls,
The dust settles, they count the cost,
The youth will bear the total loss.
While the professors lure the next,
Generation to their defence,
Safe in their spotless seat of power,
The great misguiding ivory tower.
© 2018 MILES VENISON ALL RIGHTS RESERVED