on being an old poet

i used to love,
like i won't last
another night,

that i was too big,
for life, gray-walled
and four-cornered

i was humorous,
bursting at the seams
of being young

an all-day sleeper,
my banner was streaked
with neon-wild romance

now i traipse alone
along the woods,
every night, i am the same

all those loves,
that fell on the wayside
come back in body-bags

on memory lane,
twisted with sadness
and wild-fire disease

in rare sleep,
i toss and turn,
my heartbeat skips

i am failing,
to be alive,
afraid,

love won't last on me

Reviews

[Lyn Anderson]

Very beautiful, this piece. The more we put ourselves out there, the more we are hurt, the less able to put ourselves out there again.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

one spot...6th stanza..."all those loves"?

once the reckless abandon is gone...once loves don't work out...we start to feel less alive because we get too careful, too protective of ourselves...

love the "body-bags"

j.

[highonwords]

thank you for your insights, jacob, thank you for reading - corrected the error, thank you
read morethank you for your insights, jacob, thank you for reading - corrected the error, thank you

steph