In Old Age, Hope Is A Waking Dream. Poem by Anthony Fry

Your body, makes my kettle boil for hot passion.
My heartbeats tumble, like pebbles in a stream.
Blissful desire for you, is hot like intoxication.
A treasure of wealth, in your sweetness and kind.


You to perceive, only possible in one true way.
Gladness will succeed, peace always to reign.
By chance, thoughts of secret passion remain.
A reason for love, all decisions in rich array.


Those other citizens, don't have your quality.
Your sensual nature, your verdant qualities.
My Queen of tribulation, is others misfortune.
God spreading beauty, performing miracles.


A pilgrims gratification, time crumbles things.
Magnificent old men, bewildering in meditation.
Aged angels rocking to and throe, mumbling low.
Simplicity is a friend, dwelling in two bodies.


Hot youthful play, just a passing compulsion.
Pleasures of your past, delicate fancies rejoice.
Body tastes perceived, from your perfumed skin.
For richer or poorer, both equalled love is love.


Beauty is like a spider, hanging in morning dew.
On a fine day, beautiful gay butterfly's hover.
Products of habit, with their crimson wings.
Daffodils idly dancing, in soft wind music tunes.


This day a sun sets, and every evening returns.
Those silent shadows, flitter through sunlit trees.
Me a proud peacock, twinkling blue eyes shine.
My forgotten wings, glowing in a radiant sheen.