Once, we used to fight and debate;
now we talk in distilled nuances.
It’s as if we’ve given up the fight.
I miss those days of fire,
when we were young.
To be young is less
than admirable to the
grumpy old cretins
Lips of rose, powdered ivory cheeks,
dark long hair moving as she moved,
eyes of violet ice, mitten coal hands.
She was a flower in full bloom dancing
for freedom on the lake that snowy day.
I was only a young, foolish boy, watching
the way she moved, captivated, knowing.
Lips of rose turned white, ivory cheeks froze,
dark long hair became still, her eyes closed,
the mittens no longer danced in the snow.
I fled from her stillness, forever running from
that beautiful face I never stopped to love.
Pale blue eyes and long curly red hair; she is a wild beauty.
Sweeter than nougat until she speaks. So sharp and wild, with intelligence to boot, a smile is coming, “Did fate play a hand in this meeting?“
Perhaps he’ll know when they’re older; for now, let’s be young and wild.