My suggestions of intimacy
are spoken but not heard.
Longing for sensation of touch
I reach out only to be shot down.
I am alive and in this moment
like the last fruit of the season
to be left on the ground - wasted.
Nights are filled with intellectual
stimulation and wine. Nights become
weeks. Weeks to months. Months to years.
The look of a stranger ignites
the tiniest ember which fades to
cold grey ash. A sad thing to have only
grey without feeling the heat of the
flame..I shall be old and grey shovelling
piles of grey ash, and what to be thankful
for? The cold and the color grey and the fortitude
it took to endure.
Where has your passion for life gone man?
Do you not see the wind on the trees-
The sun on the water?
Nor feel the change of the seasons in the air?
Time is passing and so then are we
like ships at sea - one portbound, the other sails
caught by wind and bellowing.
Oh how I wish that ships would collide -
wreckless even. Would it be so bad to compromise
the integrity of the hull? Would a good toss about
be more gratifying than a vessel at port bound by
dry wroughted lines?
This I ponder as I have been shot down once again.
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