As I waited, basking in the glow of the aged,
hardwood doors, and impressed by the
multitude of ornate locks and bolts,
I pondered such indications of responsibility.
Surely, within this massive bastion of tradition
lay the exciting world of adult possibilities.
Now, as my gray hairs have increased,
along with my accomplishments,
their condescending promise
that age and experience would win admittance,
rings feebly in my ears,
bearing memories to my heart.
I see myself bringing my avowed “ticket”.
I spread out my diplomas and awards,
only to have them proclaimed invalid.
Once again, I hear their soft words professing appreciation,
while their hands deftly remove
some responsibility from my domain.
This theft is sanitized with a paternal pat on the head,
and the authoritative declaration
that they were merely providing “needed” help.
Just as often, justification is angrily delivered
with a self righteous proclamation
of my incompetency.
After all, they assure themselves,
didn’t she misspell or miss pronounce a word.
Such imperfection must not be trusted,
besides her methods are strange.
The Judgement Falls:
She and her ideas need not be considered.
And so year after year,
the gilded lies fall away,
revealing the lead locks of encumbering traditions;
and the polished wood rots,
as dead things do,
leaving only the strong bars of iron prejudices.
No longer do I yearn for admittance,
offering the light of hope
and fresh perspective
to the darkened halls.
Behind the barred doors,
I sought maturity,
but, instead, found people petrified
by their fear of change.
No, I would not enter now,
for I prefer the light of the sun
and the hope of growing things.
I am deceived no longer,
this is not a place of possibilities,
but of stupefaction.
I will not enter
for behind the door
are those who feared the new,
the different, growth;
Behind that door is not the life enhancing
safety of a refuge,
but the dubious, monotonous,
security of a prison.