The Rope Poem by Malory Joyce

They have the been though it all
heads on their shoulders,
with smoke stained breath,
I cannot bare within their deep
conversations.
Sitting around the table,
passing the sugar and coffee cakes,
and the clacking of their
spoons steering and hitting,
their coffee cups,
talking about back in the days,
when they were once young.
I would be interested
if I wasn't so involved
in seeking company from
a common age.

The children are playing
in the other room.
Their minds were too young
to know any words
that can provide just the
simplest of conversation.

There I dosed into a pensive thought,
I could imagine them all
with a rope tied around their waste.
The elders were much short, and
the young ones were much long.
and at the end of these ropes
was a bright light that lead into
a never-ending dream; death.
descending as their living on
whereat they pull

I then realized
that I was once that child
playing in the other room.
Right now looking for a place to be;
to find where I belong,
but somewhere down the road
I will end, sitting at
that table with my own coffee
cup and coffee cake, talking about back
in the days when I was once
young, with a rope tied
around my waste.