If swords, in fun,
Go on the run,
We’ll no doubt find
There’s only one.

And rip, it must,
In adult lust,
The tender youth,
With poisoned rust.

And youth returns:
The friction burns
- The bag of bones -
No age concerns.

And both alone
- The sock of bone,
The sated man -
The broken home.

If swords, in fun,
Go on the run,
We’ll no doubt find
There’s only one.