i live in a small clutch
where people seem to think in a discordant chorus
where beauty and eloquence
are lost
to small talk muling monkeys
and mute turnips

am i an old man
i feel like a bird in a forest of dogs
i am my own ancestor
haunted by the intimate sufferings
of the autumn years

i find my self
a teacher
a child
a satyr
in a temporal crisis
shifting my bones
feeling hollow
thinking i want to finish
more then i want to continue

it is my love of beauty and the exotic
that keeps me vital
as i age i learn the secrets of time
it's insults to the body
Gods replacement
for the unending labors of mid life
and
the lies and cruelty of youth

i ask myself
can i choke the haunting of age to come
was i born for a certain life that never existed
is memory an illusion

i look forward
to a new life
the one
i can't remember
and
had
before
i
was
born