My inclination is to pass this way again,
and assume that I am ignorant of the path.
My bones will not agree with the decision,
and will stage a mock protest,
but they'll come along.
And my corpuscles will argue with each other
over who will be fed first.
This is what it's come down to for me:
bickering in my veins.
But they'll come around, too.
I can only imagine my way - it's been so long -
and try to see life with the eyes of a young man.
Actually, I'd rather have the bones of a young man;
the eyes don't matter.
I've seen enough.
Young bones, young heart, and riddles that are still fresh
and complex and delicious and drive a young man mad with desire.
Those are the companions I need most.
I rattle through my days, and rifle through my files of
doubt and excuses and petty imbecilities.
A lot of good those files do me now.
I've forgotten the alphabet, or more so,
why it once seemed so important.
I've forgotten my name - no, I remember it now.
Maybe I am ignorant of the path after all.
My inclination, then, is to feel my way through, and
if I'm lucky, catch a young man's riddle along the way.
I'd like that.