gerryonbroadway Poetry (2)

I never quite knew why my father took me hiking,
Unlike other dads who simply took a belt to their rebellious son.
My punishment to toil in the soil,
Get dirty, and climb literal mountains
That began as a tiny chip on boyhood's shoulder.

Therefore, it was a shock to come upon the proverbial field of flowers
Growing in such unexpected places
So like a sunny pasture instead at dusk usually perceived by young life.
Someone whom always saw things of beauty
Contained in a bottle to wither and die prematurely.

Rather odd that the older man would practically skip
And then drop right there amidst
All those pinks, lavenders, a splash of yellow,
Perhaps finally find some good in suffering
He would share with me as a means to escape the darkness.

They were children
Who weren't suppose to know
The ways of their elders.
Young and foolish,
Boy and girl,
Playing the roles of man and woman.

Learning their lines,
Setting the stage,
To rehearse each part
Until they perfected the craft
With a child they couldn't keep
And really didn't want.

In time the offers came,
With a price that sounded right.
Their parents played salesmen,
Their state played host,
The child played barter,
And their hearts played dead.