Untitled Poem by Robert L. Bixler III

Sad, slow reflect of hopeful heart,
Brings this hopeless lover closure.
As I dream of emotional start,
It is present laments that obscure.

How is it that I yearn
For something I’ve never received?
Passionate touch earn
That brings confidence short-lived.

If my blood has yet to run
In burning desire degree,
Am I capable of aged pun:
Loving-lust, not in thee.

If I am to never lust,
Then must I never know love?
Shall my heart simply rust
As the skin bleeds above?

It will be in this final hour
That my memories lie;
Tell me a story so sour
That I cannot sigh.