Your eyes are windows on my
soul: old though it is; older though they are.
And age is perceived by
those who wish to see their death [ap-
that much sooner than May
herds its fragrant blooms across
summer month to
August-time of hay.
And your eyes deepen even more than my soul ever
could: in your eyes I see reflecting my much better
self: and only when I look inside your body,
and touch the juices of your wants, and realise
these wants do include the being that is me,
and then I touch the innermost movement
of your joyous wanton clockwork, as you shout out in
glorious pleasured treasured moments which
mean so much ecstasy: you are my
drug, after all,
And am I yours, too?
Your drug … and your love?