Petulant child-boy-man
your lovers come and go
your hours pass like leaves
you haunt them as well as yourself
honestly sharing the bits and pieces
you stand proud and vain
in awe of your own excesses
of sensual gratification and your lack
of true motivations or ideals
I feel the days slipping by
wine and passion blurs the scenes
the honesties and sharings are less real
we press each other amid the days
to prove again that we, they, are real
but evening draws on
and I tend to forget again
what its all about
I love them all so differently
but does it matter ... does it?
its just another way to pass the time
more pleasant than most, perhaps,
but with no more meaning
Love is just a motion
with out the soul's need
and loving just an act
without the passing of life's seed
Petulant and so confused I play without my heart
in this game where shadows bleed.
gallagher
31 may 78
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —