Saturday, November 5, 2016

For when I get old and weak,
and all this skin hangs,
all the time has gone,
all the birds that were,
either died, or are lost, 
or extinguished (I am placing my bets on this, for I know my humans too well)
all the clothes that I made,
are out of fashion.

I get my share of love and let that be young, 
from an old lover, for all I care.

because there is nothing more depressing 
than an old love of a young lover.



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