Winter Coming/Love Hurts
Seasons race across the space inside my mind.
Too soon and yet too late I find
that Spring's absconded, Summer's fled,
Autumn's single sigh is dead.
Winter sits a mourner in some dark and lonely corner
condemned to hiding from the sun.
Depressed, I get undressed. I am undone.
You only see my back. I am Jack Horner.
Is it the passing of my youth I dread
or just the vacancy within my bed?
Broken hearts when young are not so easily unstrung.
The sun and moon can be replaced, the stars rehung,
but older ravaged hearts when torn apart can only lie
muttering vague obscenities
shuttering up old memories.
Jack now inserts his thumb --- there is no plum.