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?
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;
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?
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.
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.