The old chairs creak under restless bodies,
scraping floors like lost voices in alleys.
Tradition sits in the corner, half-forgotten,
a battered suitcase no one dares unpack.
In classrooms, chaos filthies the blackboards,
erasers stained with the rubble of someone’s past.
"Too old, too rigid," they cry and toss it,
but the new ideas float like dead leaves.
They can't find footing on thin air,
hovering over the graves of wisdom’s ghosts.
Books rot in untouched corners, spines breaking,
their ink muttering secrets no one heeds.
Gender, God, the canon—all thrown to fire.
What burns brightest dims the quickest.
It’s easier to shout than to listen.
Easier to rip than to stitch together meaning.
Yet there’s something in the wreckage: ashes
smoldering, whispers buried beneath noise.
Tradition might be a wall or a wound,
but even wounds bleed something like truth.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 9th, 2026 10:20
- Comment from author about the poem: Tradition should not be overlooked because it is old. On the contrary, it should be held with reverence because it has endured time.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
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Comments2
This poem speaks of detruction be it the tradition or war itself it is always easier to destroy than to fix and the good goes with the bad. A fave my friend
Tradition builds so many things, memories, confidence, loyalty, heritage etc.
Thank You Katie it certainly does and should not be discarded
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