A portrait of an artist, still a young man at heart …

I have loved so many people,

so silently in my life;

unwittingly passed over

as fearsome 

rite of perhaps faintly religious 


And although I tried so very hard

to culture the very best of myself,

too often I failed the love 

which others

only messily 

were able to offer me.

And so I learnt that life sure

is as messy as hell,

as messy as any cracked bell might toll;

and yet – even so! – in its hellish dark folds,

like books upon newspapers boldly sold,

and venerably 

able to old our fair pasts into futures owned and lost –



unruly as ever was –

arises then love’s light again:

and again it does

rise (even as 

failure did bid us this often

farewell …).

And although I shall never be young now my dear, 

in my soul and in 

my heart – from this minute and to my 

end – I shall strive always

to pursue this tenderness – this unending 

good of love:

the should and pleasure 

of harking back

to such times when unreelings, 

like rod in search of catch,

still kindly remained 

(for nothing was left 

to shame us then, and nothing did make us

sad …).

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