The Carousel

by James Peter Hadzess

Newborn,

You will plunge headfirst screaming into the world.

Like a skydiver consumed by his flight.

You will walk early and be the last to talk.

Always questioning why everyone is in such a hurry,

Decide they are ignorant, and you correct.

You will learn to roller-skate better.

Ride a bicycle up hills to reach school.

Be embarrassed by your faded clothing for only a moment,

Always disgusted by the savagery of humans.

You will find joy in standing before an easel in

Happy kindergarten,

Naïve youth,

Cautious maturity.

Always lost in wondering.

You will know the sadness of forgotten love:

Bones rattling in an empty city.

You will decide that whatever is available should be good enough.

Notice that red apples are always sweet.

But cannot stop dreaming or

forgive nostalgia.

Decades will pass since you last dug holes in the sandbox.

Played a general with your plastic soldiers,

Or failed at learning tennis.

You will ride the merry-go-round for 25 cents.

All the wooden animals look faded,

Although they have new coats of paint

And still go up and down.

You will haunt libraries for days searching for specters of unknown ancestors,

Looking for a rose without thorns.

Deep within,

You will find a luminous star that takes everything and gives nothing in return,

And makes the dazzling footwork of arcane philosophy child's play.

When the half-truth of life merges with the half-truth of death,

You will hear the gentle mocking laughter of others, 

Amazed at your delays.