My head is bald,
my breath is bad,
Unshaven is my chin,
I have not now the joys I had
When I was young in sin.
I run my fingers
down your dress
With brandy-certain aim
And you respond to my caress
And maybe feel the same.
But I've a picture
of my own
On this reunion night,
Wherein two skeletons are shewn
To hold each other tight;
Dark sockets look
on emptiness
Which once was loving-eyed,
The mouth that opens for a kiss
Has got no tongue inside.
I cling to you inflamed
with fear
As now you cling to me,
I feel how frail you are my dear
And wonder what will be—
A week? or twenty
years remain?
And then—what kind of death?
A losing fight with frightful pain
Or a gasping fight for breath?
Too long we let
our bodies cling,
We cannot hide disgust
At all the thoughts that in us spring
From this late-flowering lust.
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