Perpetual Adolescence Poem by Taylor Rosewood

Ripped from their moorings,
petals set sail, scorched and
limp in the high desert wind,
blown to the odeon, buying
tickets at a discount, in limited
release with their popcorn
and soda.

Some never make it. They're
gypsies in a tempest, or lost
in a memory, like vapors that
recede, waiting for a change-
to be a part of something cool,
and not surrounded by their
loved ones, always wanting
to be alone.

Castles of branches, brambles
of glances- through these things
they look out on the world, waiting
for the world, or the wind to set
them free, which is often never
further than a phone or a town
beside a freeway going east,
where they end up right back
where they didn't want to be.