To love is to stare
into the eyes of beauty
long passed it's due.

To see the wrinkles of
time bend and fold around
the broken brow of age
and life.

When there is little to rhythme
about when the use of bones
and muscle gives way
to canes and blind eyes.

Oh to beauty who cares
very little for the old
since age is not in the
dreams of the youthful and bold.

How I thought these thoughts
as I stared out to my Lenore.
And I pined like none other then
a timber wolf to the broken moon.

Yet now and always I am lost
to time, since I am not old yet
but nor am I young.

09/07/2006

Posted on 09/07/2006
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