In the End

I desire to retire

To a house with old clocks.

There my poor words

Would be inspired by birds

And the clock’s slow tick tock.

 

 

I would forget my regret

And get lost in fine rhyme.

Women and wine

Would distract my mind

From passing time.

 

 

Young women’s heels click.

Old clocks tick.

But all must stop

In the end,

However much we pretend

They do not.