Being old in the game

It was a half-life that seemed like a genuine world
wielding hard symbolism over those who ruled it; we
lived vaguely in teen-easy ambivalence whilst our peers
took their chances in ordered existence, wearing
their office with pride and esteem. The guises we
wore were a mask, a dream in denial of their system,
its cachets, its legends, the grotesquely worn smiles.
My pupils once told me I couldn’t be old,
a cheering perception that held my success
if I could read the lessons suggested unless
they were joking. I asked, they giggled and said
I could laugh, a sign that they knew was not fraught
in old teachers. I aught to be pleased, I wanted to teach,
and to teach meant to reach, to fathom the heart
and the essence of each ingenious child.
That teaching is sharing, puissantly bareing
the soul, airing the weakness, and caring
as bold in its basics as love is revealling;
this is all done in an aegus of trust, a vapourous scroll
much older than reason, It does take its toll, the treasonous
must can sour in the vat and being old in the game
is a sign of just that!
© I.D. Carswell