FutureBeaten

There's a knock on your door
One not of comfort, yet familiar
The frame is open to the bowed figure there.
She's stood stooping, her pose imposing.
You know in a heartbeat you've been future-beaten.

Solid slow figures will come to pound on you,
Stick figure crib memories in the big scheme of things.
We're afraid of the known,
Scorn for truths are condoned,
Abandoned, alone, in a shed in a garden,
Mercilessly left to the vines that creep as a creep creeps.

But the torture's divine.
It passes on like an heirloom, valued in heart and in sterling,
Prospecting on a premise that change is inevitable,
Judging by our own parents.
Our own parents: still judging.
We are judged.
So we judge.

Nothing will change as youth passes into furious adulthood
And then bitterly into middle age, and our inevitable deaths.
The knock on your door could be forever more, and it's sure
That all we could be could in our very core,
Is the dream that we are all always right.
"No compromise" shines a light like no compromise could.
You're future-beaten into grim submission
By your own youthful stance on sedition.