Being the Tradition

The smoking lounge was japanese-- More pillows than chairs. The bathroom was screaming college boys Who had no regard for their downstairs neighbors. Five minute epiphanies were lost To cans of premium beer. Long distance phone calls were lost In the hallway shuffle. Tempers were lost To months of unnoticed build-up. It was my first lemon-flavored cola and the First real sense of pride I'd ever had. I was the spirit of everything We'd always stood for. I was to be the next torch-bearer, But things were falling apart. He sat on the floor and stared At a wall draped in black fabric. The voices echoing down the hall Made him wince and glare... and frown. All the rum in the world wouldn't drown his sorrows Or make him speak his mind. Creativity was dead. I was barely pleasantly buzzed; He was barely pleasant. But we were the embodiement Of everything things used to be. Art was dead. Christmas candy was sprawled Out on the floor like Halloween. Beer was in patio cups Masquerading as ginger ale. Society was dead. They forgot how to be cordial, how to be tolerant, To be a family, a mere community. He graduated and I was left looking For someone to pass the torch to. **"Things fall apart; the center does not hold." - W.B. Yeats Written December 6th, 2001 © on Dec 06 2001 03:05 AM PST   18 • 0 • 10