I fear for myself at thirty, forty for these walls of life’s Gloom
Are closing fast on the cubicle of my Young existence
Like a tepidly-loved first job that becomes your Life’s Work
And with each head-rushing spin of that ageing Despair, your Life’s Blood ebbs
Slowly, painfully; I am an old woman beneath this taut flesh, beneath these soft lips.
I am as withered as Summer’s first raspberry
Whose Juice has fully been Drunk.