Shall my old heart restore? All those kisses it once poured Out and under autumns door? No second spring, shall I see No crazy love, only aching knees.
Gone are my youthful hours Flown away, like the end of a dream: Images, only images now kept, In old vaults, and far-off islands.
False hearts, and cracked vows Tis all hell has allowed: Inconstancy, my heart cries: Retire old heart, before you die; For sweetness of youth has gone away...
and so I did, retire my old heart. I gave my heart liberty to play and toy, as it will, wished; in my youth that is, as did those I met; and so play with me, they did, those I met with my heart. Freedom was full and complete back then, and whatever I sought need or want, practice made perfect, for all the sweets of love. Bodies in my arms, pressed gently, a kiss, a good cry now and then, eyes that wished for more or less; that is how it was, depending on the time of day, month, year: now to obtain these old liberties, wou ld be foolish, I am like a bee with its sting gone. Oh, my wife would not agree, but I would; I know how I was. Call it dull equipment, or perhaps a fire left burning, and now it is only embers. It almost makes a person fell like a murmur: old bones. There is no real desire beyond the term desire, (enjoyment or orgasm). Much I have said about youth, and old bones, now for a spark of modesty.
I shall love my wife, love thee till I die, and if you ask why, I would say: what has come with age is living life modestly, self-effacingly: something, with a little more ring. For now I am much more willing to furnish: because I understand the art of love, and giving.
[#1338/5/3/06
See Dennis' web site: http://dennissiluk.tripod.com
Author:: Dennis Siluk
Keywords:: Poetry
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