The screen upon which I project my passion—
Am I so wrong to love thee so much? Too much.
I approach the Elderscape, though longing
For the Youngtime place where Love and Play
Are comingled and tolerated. Celebrated. Excesses overlooked.
Infidelities burnished to forgiveness. Where is thy
Leavening hand for my tortured brow and empty heart?
How too few kisses bind me to your pier!
How too few mornings find us intertwined awaiting a freshening dawn!
Shall I weigh anchor? Risk unknown newer tempests? My oaken bark is aged.
My vision dims. Hearing fails. Wrinkles cavernous. Surely as the swells and killing
Reefs call to my stupid searching heart, the master without a navigator is triply
Cursed. What course do I set? What port do I seek? How doth this captain
Ever find home port without You?