I’ll not think love at this age,
but I’m a hypocrite assuaged.
A liar in my dying right,
spread gasoline and then ignite
the blaze of want and desire,
watch my flames lick the fire.
But then you make a thrilling twist,
dampen the rage, remove my cysts
from my thoughts and my soul,
my former self but a ghoul.
And I can no longer see,
the blighted thoughts of younger me.
Yet at the same time, I still wonder:
Have I been ripped asunder?
My very being become otiose,
my speaking words, too verbose.
Nevertheless, I’m quite at peace,
as if I’ve become one deceased.