A poem

I think it makes sense now, these waves of assault
at my age folk often speak of,
feeling overwhelmed by the relentless pace of change, the ever circulating complexity
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 feelings under the veneer
of polite sterile civility, only a few
aberrations slipped through the nets, from poor upbringing of course,

The besieged boomers like me, retreat en-masse
to caravan parks where only familiar faces are seen, ageing tanned like leather
couples, all white,

spending all night watching TV
portable generator humming away on petrol,

that valuable elixir so recklessly
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