Sweetheart
This is something I was once told, by a
Man who felt born at thirty years old,
As if he had never been a child, just
A shell full of pathos and steam.
In his eyes there were rueful flecks of grey, on a
Stagnant green iris display,
Flat and dead like those of a doll, killed by
The loss of a once favoured dream.
For he certainly owned the dream, but preferring
A lonesome protracted scream
Rolled over and up and sold it out, as if
It meant nothing at all.
He was nowhere as tough as he thought he seemed, a child
Curling frightened and partially screened
From the world in the cell of his mind
Where love was unlikely to call.
So this is what he had to say, sort of
Tragic and telling by the way,
And it ruled his life since, as surely
As the sun will rise and the tide will turn:
"I left my sweetheart, by the by,
Abandoned, rejected, high and dry;
For when you are young and stupid
You think you've got it to burn."
"Now the days roll by and nights all crawl
And as I age my spirits fall,
In a drizzle of cold regret, that seems
To trickle on and on.
I want her back, but I realise, it's
Too late now, and how time flies;
So take heed of the truth in a Sixties song for
You never know what you've got 'till it's gone..."
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