Turncoat
They are tiresome to those of us, whose lives
Have passed to dreadful sameness, pecking our
Companions on their cheeks before we go to
Sleep: these lovers with their shining eyes
And searching hands and eager speech,
And we must squelch our urges to
Eviscerate them with the truth. "You'll
See, in time, that love is brief. It dies,
Then lingers only as the ghost of what it
Used to be, ' and, knowing this, we grow
Resigned to putting up with what we have:
Inertia, I suppose you'd say, as we no longer
See the good in being jolted by a thing so
Soon to ebb away.
But I am here, and look at me. Do my
Eyes shine? I cannot seem to keep my
Fingers to myself. I babble like an
Adolescent. Worse, you saw that, when
I saw you, I began to run your way.
My neighbors, in their settled lives,
Are scowling as they pass by me, but,
From the other side, I say that they
Are tiresome.
poem by Lawrence Beck
Added by Poetry Lover
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