Every generation believes it be the last greatest one that will walk the Earth.

The final ones to shoulder the standard before a shadow falls on Empire

and weeds start to grow beneath humanity’s feet,

and weave their way silently to the fatted necks

slung low by the weight of unrealistic expectation.

 

We are kept in check by the ghosts of grandparents and their memories,

we understand the mistakes they made, the unexpected dances

they waltzed on generation’s passed and the now forgotten graves

that sit row upon row like stone guards awaiting a presidential cavalcade

and secret service men unseen hiding behind the smallest blades of grass,

arms drawn, like a cartoon cowboy, his red hair growling for vengeance.

 

That circle is completed by the expectations of the children

who look up to their heroes and who remember when

their parents were the ultimate accolade, the height in which they wanted

to attain and who in time would fuck them over as age

cripples their youthful innocence.

 

Death is the great leveller in this,

the silent grief and weeping that fills the minds

of the next generation on how to live up to the ideals,

the madness, the ticking down of a clock that starts as

soon as you come bursting into the world, dies just as quickly

but with a whimper.

 

To stand between the two expectations forced upon you

from above and below, from every conceivable angle

and the judgement that is cast silent, mocking, damning

and full of wondrous, pondering hate for any wrong decision

made in the effort to be you.

 

If we should strive for greatness, to be here in a thousand years

then perhaps we should ape the trees, sturdy, resolute and steadfast,

every generation coming up behind reaching the same lofty height;

only threatened with extinction at the hands

of the insects with chainsaws and rotting muscles.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015.