I've come to believe, in these endless latter years,
That literature is naught but compensation for the love
That never was.
Experience and emotion, the need to be more than I am,
The dim echo of the need to have a man who wanted me more then
I wanted him.
Soft the surrender. My feelings all easy triggered by hollywood.
Soft compliance in manipulation, to the false sentiment in the
Affectation of tears.
I have nothing left, no person, no memory, no affection to pass On
As I sleep my way through endless days of seniority and decay.
I still weep.
But tears are simply habits
Among the old.