A Pied Piper
Children’s dreams and myth must live on
A Poet’s Remembering
“You are dead to me,”
you once said,
and yet I saved you
a thousand times.
“You are beneath me,”
unseen, unheard,
and yet I haunt you
with my incessant rhymes.
You called me pied piper,
as though I might charm
your children with
my verse.
I dared them to dance
and fearlessly saunter,
to sing as minstrel
and princess.
So you took them from me,
and made them your servants,
so sure I would
fall from their view.
I did not call them
to a place so far distant
as slaves to my will,
no, that was you.
My music stolen
from hearts in that moment,
the very last
of their dreams,
My tunes may die voiceless
with no one to listen,
but they will remember
their silent themes.
All that is dead,
what lies beneath
the lost magic charms
were more than they seemed.
We have no right at all to steal the hopes and dreams, the music, and the myths from our children, grandchildren, and generations to come. It is time to end the madness of greed and consumption.
cCopyright © 2025, Robert G. Metivier. All Rights Reserved.
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