It’s things grown old that hurt my bones,
a spread of green can easily fold
to visions of dust and dirt, and worse.
Unwelcome drought of starving verse
is not as spoiled as half the mold.
it’s things grown old that hurt my bones,
But scarcely cause for me to disown
the meat of country, my home, resold
to visions of dust and dirt, and worse
Where bells can toll and then coerce
the starving youth with taunts of plastic gold:
it’s things grown old that hurt my bones.
None, or few, are so truly accursed—
it’s my own demons hot threshold
a vision of dust and dirt, and worse
This image, a curse in my control,
a thing grown old that hurts my bones
with visions of dust, and dirt, and worse.
© J.P.V.
