To A Lady - Poem by Morgan Michaels
It's nice, beyond a certain stage
(merely a euphemism for age)
To leave behind the vexing task
of falling, thrice a day, in love-
Often by the broadest light thereof.
And hormone driven, bear Love's cross-
Charming, awfully, the way
Secretions frack our mortal clay
Such as a shower cannot remedy-
Ardor paid with future inanition.
Abandoned more in practice than in theory,
Now. Then, I never minded, really,
A 'court the present, shirk
The future' policy retired, I recall one fact:
This Love's a lot of work.
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