POEM - Windsor Dr

We call them lucky, those who don’t die young;

those who live long enough to see

how incorrect most are about the nature

of love and humanity

We call them lucky because

we’re still young as well;

older folks know better

Too few dare, and too few care

Better to die in the midst of youth’s delusion

Or maybe all I ever did was come close

to what the rest of you so unsafely

settle into

  

She’s 10 feet away, and I don’t even

get to see her face

We’re all in such a hurry to go nowhere

Tossed together, then parted for another eternity,

amid that river of productivity

And all I want is to feel it again;

to watch both of us suddenly

seeing one another fight

that ever-flowing current

for a moment of saying

what actually matters

by not breaking the brimming silence

Lo, she’s now staring out at monsters

while I continue creating my own,

caging the loveliest parts of myself;

those which just-so-happen

to need her the same as they do

air and water

Thus, age glares down a mirror

full of desperate regrets,

and knows only too well that to grow old

is to die young, yet be made

to live with it

  

She is but a ghost, whose casket

(in keeping with the madman I am)

I wish to haunt

This me would, therefore, say there is no hope

But, being mad, perhaps it is highly likely

that she’ll go on to prove me wrong

before one of our tombs

stops both of our hearts

Only time can tell the tale