The Resurrection Of Youth

Rose, sticky, constricting embraces,

Cling to the edges of cups, glasses,

A dead man’s memory.

The lid closes, protecting a corpse,

Dry course earth billows up and around,

Enveloping the long self-induced sentence,

And an old friend returns to greet me,

With a shy wave, a blush, a giggle,

Wrong place, wrong time. Right widow.

Freedom flickers in my heart,

Before igniting into pure undiluted oxygen,

Head rush blends into dizziness.

Then it plays its final sickening card,

Reminding me harshly, that I lost more than won.

Pretty girls play dangerous games,

Marry foolish mistakes.

A man too selfish to love his own wife,

Or children born simply to continue a foul legacy,

Of greed, fear and wasted politics.

Courage surrendered in the early years,

Feminine charm and vanity fell at a hurdle,

Love never even got in through the window,

Not even through the crack in the doorframe,

A practical marriage framed by neglect.

Stagnant compassion perfumes an empty life,

Surrounding useless trinkets and guilty jewels,

Purpose and direction wander aimlessly,

Searching for a glint of hope.

Bitterness creeps in offering a shawl,

Resentment gifts me a cane,

To tip-tap my way through cobbled, shadowy streets,

To chase an ache, a lost love,

My youth.

Little Ginge x


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