A Letter to Myself
“Am I my brother’s keeper?”
Asked Cain, sprouting evil from his soul.
His words became famed farther and deeper,
Than the sheep boy could have known.
You who stalk the darkness of the written word,
Delighting in the struggles of lives not your own—
You try to play God to the unsuspecting steward
Of a place in which you do not belong.
“All that glisters is not gold,”
Read the Prince of Morocco from Portia’s box.
A lesson left to be learned and told,
For near-sighted historians poring over ancient texts.
Listen to me, and listen well,
For the world is yours to win.
Youth grows old, and looks will sell,
But your ambition will never fade.
“The old that is strong does not wither,”
Tolkien wrote in a lesser known line.
Plant down roots and joy deliver--
Drink all your milk and grow strong.
My love and friendship will never peter,
For we are built on hate and kindness.
I may not be my brother’s keeper,
But I can help my younger self.
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