Old

I start to think of things which were, but aren't,
When I envision you. That's how it is when
One is old. What's new always is reminiscent,
Tied, somehow, to what has been, and, though
You are like no one else, a beauty, mute,
Mysterious, my mind must mold you, empty
Vessel, into something, someone, I had
Also wanted long ago, and all the longing
I am feeling, all the flaring, futile hope,
Rekindles hopes I used to have, their objects
Gone but not forgotten. Soon enough, I
Know you'll go, and, later, when another's
Come, I'll see you, not the one who's there,
And lose her, too, through misperception,
Doomed, it seems, to put the past ahead
Of what is in the present. That appears
To be the way it is for one who's old.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2014-08-27 at 02:05

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