So lost on the path am I
that I grow weary of the pleasures here
my soul burnt out from my crossways drives.
Sometimes my eyes get so old I can hear them say,
'Let me smile again, young and clean,
on something I've not seen before.'
The human condition, mine, so burnt out and jaded
I writhe against my soul and passions
like an animal trying to get free.
But the years and habits like mycellium creep
through the brighter ways I've known
until I scarcely know I've ever been otherwise.
Until the face in the mirror is mine and its dying
wastrel, I've chosen how to spend my time
pressed against my senses like some tourist
until I can't remember what I've bet.
gallagher
06-09-77
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —