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“I am the poet laureate of my soul”,
he said,
pompously,
at the promontory of wood,
set in front of the graduates,
whose caps askew,
looked like a chess board
comprised of just the black pieces,
glinting in the sunlight
of an afternoon.
on a campus filled
with graduates
aching to go wild
in an orgy of debasement,
fueled by alcohol
and angst.
“You are the poets of your future lives”,
he droned on,
choking on words
of false hope for the future.
Everyone knew that their lives
would be filled with hope
and desire
and tragedy
and illness
and failure
and success,
spread liberally over bodies
that spent their time
shaken, not stirred,
in an orgy of debasement,
fueled by alcohol
and angst.
“You are the hope of our university
and our planet,
and the architects of your destiny”,
and on and on and on and on,
until that destiny
is stained by actions,
spent in an orgy of debasement,
fueled by alcohol
and angst.
“I leave you with the single message
that your lives
are now yours,
and we are no longer responsible
for you.
Go out into the world,
and make us proud.”
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