Poetry

Years've passed. Hate and distrust have expired.
Your synapses turn to something akin to wood
Your motor's slowing nicely, as it should.
Frankly, you're more or less healthy, love, but tired,
Tired, having seen so many kinds of folly, learning as you
Did all spring from the same rood:
Genuine Greed, imaginary Need--
Awful, loving, now, all points of view
Awful, loving all, now, clothed or nude
Necessary, illness, now, and good,
Even your teeth's, which presently grow forward--
God, an indemnity, as you trudge death's doorward.
All you wanted you now have, indeed,
But having, now, admit, no longer need.