Procession

ladies who live in my memory,

were they really so very fair?

did their laughter tinkle softly,

was it gold thread in their hair?

 

these days no ladies visit me

a lonely room more my line

do I imagine what happened,

what was never really mine?

 

three or four left their legacy,

odd scars garnish my facade,

some were softer than satin

others came of granite hard

 

what mark did I ever leave?

did any mourn my charms?

is there a lady grey that yet

regrets a want of my arms?

 

I imagine a line of old ladies

queuing to accept my regrets,

a formal apology for the hurts

no spurned woman regrets

 

why did I never settle down

and stick rather than twist?

I weep odd days, grieving

at the loving wife I missed

 

grass seemed greener, new

ladies with attributes riper,

my restless loins a kid in a

sweetshop, a spoiled viper

 

did errant sperm betray me,

chance offspring left behind?

did those ladies bear young

I was never meant to find?

 

quiet now my shrunken asp,

sad at ladies it cannot serve,

I'd give my right testicle for

one lusty kiss, a lissom curve

 

 

◄ Bloom

Coping ►

Comments

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Stephen Atkinson

Sun 13th Jun 2021 14:27

Days forlorn. Superb!

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Leon Kamm

Sun 13th Jun 2021 12:40

A sad little masterpiece Simon.

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