Sweet Nectar's Flower

Desirous winds now swiftly sweep down mountain slopes of stone so steep - where boughs of broken ash are scattered; random timber torn and tattered. I retreat to find my jade and ruby cup, to make sweet love to rich red wine, fill my cup clear up, drink and drain the goblet dry to claim its love as mine. Take me all or none, use me up, and when you're done wrap slender arms around my waist; kiss me there, oh yes, and taste of me behind the bower, planting seeds of need which soon will bloom sweet nectar's flower. Alluring is your kind appeal, like shimmer on green bladed grass with silver tips of morning dew. I glory in each inch of skin as I begin to gently stroke and marvel at its golden hue. The moss and mold of surface earth leave banner scents to please my nose; but bold and giddy-high in mirth are bawdy ballads sung and told in honor of your brightly painted toes. I ponder as I wander this old field once fertile with a decent yield, now overused, some say abused, for growth and life have not been fused. The butler has a sadness in his eyes I neither can dissect nor utilize; lonely, I suppose, I wonder if he knows one's life is but a grand surprise, a farce that slowly grows in drift toward death until life dies. A poet pleases with his heart-felt runes while singers please with oft sung tunes. A painter paints to please, on canvas or a wall, but men of age in pain don't gain or please at all. Let us take this bitter time, as winds whip high the mountain vine, to retrospect our lives complete; transparency without deceit. We may just make a break-through (though breaking through is not the purpose of the game) as we become both cast and crew to watch a world now flow for us the same. I once was young and now I'm old but still I feel so brazen bold; am I too old or still quite young enough to sing the songs once sung, not at the end--but just begun?