beware, first edit so this will take a bit of editing/polishing...
The Wild Flowers Of Rusden Teachers College:
Sometimes I think about that strange place
where buildings collected as if they had fallen -
not a thought for rhyme or reason, apt for the times
before every shape took on someone’s importance,
while we, the mad children of the times
collected in black caverns of fantasy and desire
strutted under lights while we ingested or drank
and never gave a thought to time’s heedless passage.
It was so long ago now, so far away in time,
those lessons in limbo when experiences fell through fingers
like sand lifted up in the hand and we let our voices
whisper and roar as we raced through love and lust
our hands slipping and gripping even as the familiarity
wove an unbroken chain through the ensuing years.
It was a time of youthful energy, when the follies
and the hurts we gave to each other were never intended
for we were the wild flowers that bloom in innocence
as we climbed the stairs into adulthood’s light –
oh we thought ourselves so majestically grown then,
took ourselves far too seriously, as only the young truly can,
and played so hard we fell alone or together, rose again
like starving Draculas seeking the next dramatic neck
to drain to the very last bittersweet drop then taking the bow.
I miss those times, that moment of blossoming,
for though I have found many such moments in the light,
and many moments too alone before the howling abyss,
it is the first blossom in company with like-yielding wild flowers
that always fill memories stolen in the evening sunlight
with the strongest scent of both tears shed and laughter shared.