It Makes Perfect Sense
Vitality and youth,
so wasted on the young.
Briefly we've tasted,
then it's gone,
but remains on our tongue.
The poetry of love,
illicit with sex and its' prose,
wanes with time,
but it's scent
remains in our nose.
Truth is what's seen,
heard are but lies,
visions become blurry
through old, tired eyes.
What's left in the end
is what was there at the start;
compassion for man,
and kindness of heart.
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