I should know better;
Admit it’s long past time
To give it up.
This is a young man’s game:
Such hair-tearing
Garment-rending
Screaming at an indifferent heaven
Is undignified in one my age.
Where is my decorum
My armour-plate against the world
The self-control that comes with years
And having seen it all?
Yet I’ve not lived this long
To sit in docile acquiescence
As all that I have built
Is burned before my eyes.
My early self, perhaps,
Could have surveyed the ruins,
And in the blackened beams, the heat-split bricks
Seen promise, and all I might raise anew.
Not now.
All I have left is rage
That will not let me rest
Until we die together.
Gonecycling (again) 