And then there's these, the torrid after waves,
Languid flourishings of frolicking affections,
and hopeful benedictions.

And then there's these , those bitter after tastes,
lingering like silence in the stringless keys.
Fluttering in stairwells and over the corner posts,
light time fading fast.

But, I'm young yet, say again and again and again,
until you're too old.
You're blood's ran thin, and the once ravishing rants are leaving
without word or wound to sorrowful soul.