There was a day when love meant only sex,
A hormonal response to affection and intimacy.
When I had fewer candles on my birthday cake,
Love was what my mother gave me
Now transposed on the person of my affections.
Yielding to new pubile desires coming from my gonads.
But this was a temporary love, dying as the passion dies.
And so a new more piwerful lust presents itself
And is welcomed, no even sought after, and enjoyed thoughtlessly,
Without seeing the consequences, ego driven, the result of unvoiced needs.
And over and over, clandestine rendezvous, hidden passions, willing partners,
Until it became the norm.
And now with those options no longer open,
With opportunity never present, and passion unloved,
The old man waits, remembering, hoping, not understanding
That the problem lies within, sitting at the bottom with the libido, super ego and Id.
Now in quiet contemplation after trying unsuccessfully to raise
The passion with forbidden images, a poor second to reality,
Wondering if the path he had chosen is now and ever was the
Path to remorse and disillusion and regret?
Was there/is there a better path when living a life of isolation,
Would celibacy have led to the same conclusion?
Will it now?
How to generate and enjoy passion, intimacy and affection,
Or is there something else?
Or are these needs wants for something else?
Loss of mothers affection? Fathers?
Immature love, touch, intimacy requirements/needs.
Shouldn’t I be beyond those infantile, animalistic, hormonal desires?
No, because I ain’t dead.
Passion lets me know I’m still alive
And enjoying the best it has to offer.