x
What can I do but go in search of the rose
Although I feel contempt for my persistence?
Why can’t I appreciate the twilight of existence?
Withered, if appropriate, companionship?
x
An aged bee, why is that gaunt contemporary
Mere pantomime? For all the lack of buzz,
This is no more at the end of its day than I am.
Why must these enfeebled vanes hanker after the essence;
x
Still demand such nectar as blooms alone secrete?
My nature, it’s my nature, being a harvester:
I’ll drone on and on about it – till I drop down dead.
Will she be there in the garden this afternoon?
x
Her potential for my arbour scents her petal bed.
If lift-off’s still available, I’ll go pay her court,
Scorn my self-disdain as mere faint-heartedness,
Breach her threshold, harbour in her port.
x
x
More in a similar dark vein at From Inside, published by The High Window Press in 2017, and in terms of aesthetics, readers may also be interested in my essay on Immoralism.
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