Me

I seldom look in the mirror anymore, my razor-blade with an edge of jagged rust – gave up “Creature features” with my early need to scare a girl into my arms at the theater a shower a day takes care of most else – but when hairs, none left on the head, become the household's main blight, an old barber's scissor in my wife's scepter-ed hand, make my beard a bit less~ the unkempt sight. The best of me has long been my dabbling in art and altruism; Ila and I, two of a kind in these respects – likeness ending there for she has always been the Fashion Plate, while unkind neighbors have often whispered, why on earth did she choose such a common looking mate?! Poetry is a religion I think, priest and priestess of words: like the tunnels of worms and the wings of birds our spans high and low, depending on the inspiration, composing both gems and turds. Though my body has slowed – the downward inclining normal senior trend – my spirit seems yet, most times, to be rising, though audibly creaking its upward arching positive bend; myself long of the opinion that the sun is a bit more concentrated when in an old poet's/poetess's experienced capable hands, expressed in his/hers well seasoned perhaps overly cured, highly distilled flatulent eyes, with just minor joint-less joint-sighs, I dutifully pen heartfelt lights – writing new, lustrous dawns over all my frequented restroom, therefore only somewhat restful golden nights