Love is cold folly for the old.
The skeleton of habit no longer bends.
The confines of rooms admit no alteration.
Old poets seek solace in crazy places
that brook cats, but not strangers.
Words become prison windows
that serve to bar the fading light.
Sex is reduced to the retelling
of boring, weary stories
or mechanically repetitive rumblings.
Love is folly for the old,
folly pointless, lone, and cold.
- mce
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