Old People

There’s something to be said for growing older. 
When you think of the alternative
It’s not so bad at all. 
In fact it would seem sad to miss 
That time of quiet reflection, 
Remembering the good, the bad, 
The Cinderella ball.

The burdens of the world upon their shoulders, 
Though labor seems to be a slave of youth. 
Quiet desperation to find harmony,
Seeking the benevolence of unrelenting truth.

Every wrinkle, every line a story to be told, 
Lessons learned more valuable than solid bricks of gold, 
Treasures far too precious to be ever bought or sold, 
Guiding young hearts through the trials 
As pangs of youth unfold.

Never doubt the force old people harbor. 
To waste the knowledge of their years 
Would surely be a crime. 
Though youth would seek the power and the glory, 
Power comes from wisdom 
And wisdom grows with time.

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