Rusticity Old

Was I old? Ah, consciously old!

Toned and mellowed through each winter’s cold.

Seeking brief warm from thine own arms.

As thee grew to long for ardent flame of youth.

‘Twas to feel the decay of thy skin,

Like woods, woods in the fall.

‘Twas to stifle,

With every lengthy breath drawn.

‘Twas to witness visits of thy kin.

Whom half-feel, of what thee feel.

As thee froze within,   

And ween- will we ever be young

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