Trying to be happy, having reached that harbour
where age proclaims sexlessness, desires squashed, fires banked controlled.
wanting an answer, railing against this forced celibacy
for grey hair declares your disinterestedness,
the mirror your unattractiveness, exaggerates lines and stretched skin
becoming a scarlet lie in monkish habit.
but oh, but, but, but…….there is so much sad truth in buts.
when arriving, at last, at the place where you are at ease with yourself,
where passions no longer unbridled; the place where you know what you want it is too late, for time, that cruel mistress, has unsexed you.
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