To walk
or talk
instead of gawk
At the girl/
boy in your world.
A welcome change
in one deranged
as I.
Years fly
or flew by
or perhaps they dragged
themselves slowly on haggered
legs, badgered
by badgers with old fags dripping from old lips
and weeping willows with empty hips.
Make-up gone
and masks gone
and faces unfolded,
new beauty beholded
anew.
Then forego
Old vertigo
and embrace the soft sigh
of “The END is NIGH”.
Live each to its last
or as your last
and not in the past
or past
lives
or old cries.
Love
is not a turtle dove
or a pure white glove,
but something sticky
and icky
and muddled with fear.
Such is the beauty of every shed tear
and old embrace
and passionate haste.
I steal a style
to create a point in argyle,
green and blue
and every hue
between.
So take my words, former teen
from a teen
to old for her years,
and dry your tears
or her tears.
Stare at the warts and take them in
to make them yours forever within
your heart,
and don’t let her stray too far apart.