Traditions

A poem

It doesn’t have to be this way.

Dark with expectation
breathlessly awaiting the new depiction,
wet with anticipation
the pouring forth, of a new tradition

A primaeval ritual, freshly born,
recurrently marked on exacting days,
from the depths of need, spawned.
This new habitual liturgy of ways.

In twenty years forward from now
this tradition will be all but forgotten.
Twisted, mangled and extinguished
to meet some newly immediate requirements.

It should always be this way.