He covers his eyes to the pain that love brings,
waiting for the callous to form.
Chokes back tears as the thorn gently stings,
providing shelter from the storm.
Caught in time standing on line,
suddenly unable to swallow.
Feels so good to do what he should,
though it makes him so hollow.
Suddenly awoke by time he finds,
a wrinkle has started to form.
No ringed finger, no tie that binds,
only solitude is the norm.
He carries no regrets, no apologies,
cannot bare any extra weight.
Surrendering carnal desire with ease,
dying dreams are left on his plate.
Contemplating his mortality,
he questions how to go on.
Not buying in to a reality,
where all faith and hope are gone.
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