And what fault, mine
that my thoughts
form poetry
and this,
from
childhood onward?
That they've served as a shield,
a comforting cloak
warm,
against cruety's cold.
And although
when young,
I've tasted of love's heady
bliss,
knew
adventure's sweet
thrill...
now,
I've but
black and white
starkness
these words on paper...
still,
sometimes I think
they are almost enough.