A poem

I think it makes sense now, these waves of assault
at my age folk often speak
of feeling overwhelmed by the pace of change
of business, of airing every thought out loud
I think of it, dear friend, as being besieged because
after all, when under siege we put up walls,

Nostalgic for a past conjured from AI reels
where like-minded folk concealed
their thoughts and feeling under the veneer
of polite sterile civility, only a few
aberrations slipped through from poor upbringing
of course,

The besieged boomers like me retreat en-masse
to caravan parks where only familiar faces are seen
couples, all white, spend all night watching TV
a portable generator hums away on petrol
squandered by massive vehicles you need to visit the mall,

So…
dear friends, heed my clarion call
lower the drawbridge let in the new, discard the fear,
leave the nostalgia to inoffensively stew,
let your soul be born and renew.

Chris