Oh, what troubles you, old man,
so alone and poorly aging?
Your skin withers on your face,
without your friends engaging.
Oh, what ails you, curmudgeon,
So lost and cursed in love?
Your light-staff now is hanging limp
and cannot rise above.
I see life’s pain-map in your frown,
and teeth becoming few,
rings are round about your eyes,
dark, without a clue.
I met this beauty in a dream,
Voluptuous – full of form;
Her face was bright, her body pleased,
her passions made me warm.
I still paint her portrait in my heart,
And sculpture her in songs,
She saw me all in shades of love,
And also for me, longs.
I put her picture on my desk,
she entertained me with her sight,
magically she danced and sang
to me, throughout the night.
She soothed me with her pleasant voice,
And offered me plump fruits
it’s the truth, she weeping begged —
Her siren voice like flutes.
She convinced me I could cross time’s bridge,
& assured me she’d give more,
–then I woke up from our dream,
And missed her very sore.
And this is why I’m troubled here,
so alone and daily aching,
the skin is wrinkling on my face,
Yet somewhere, she is waiting.
© –Limericist 2006