You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.
I know I am but summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year.
The young are so old, they are born with their fingers crossed.
That which has quelled me, lives with me, Accomplice in catastrophe.
If ever I said in grief or pride, I'd tired of honest things, I lied.
I saw and heard, and knew at last The How and Why of all things, past, and present, and forevermore.