Discretion
It’s strange how into silence we may grow
During the passage of our middle years;
How mistrust and suspicion come between
The carefree confidences of proud youth
And knowing cynicism of ripe years.
Not even those we love above all else
Escape exclusion from our reticence
Through various vaguely instinctive doubts
And hesitations that lead to yet more
Quiet withdrawals into reclusiveness.
Perhaps this is because we sense, at heart,
A nagging feeling that nothing we say
Can alter anything, so it seems best that we
Should be discreetly dumb and grow old silently.
