As bad as love hurts
When you’re 18,
Swinging your mighty axe
Before the bedeviled spirit of adulthood
And making like whims
Under gusts at the top of Mount Everest
Just barely hanging on by your limber gait
And your steely jaw,
.
The colors will start churning
And churning
The moment you get older,
The thought of death
Flanked by senses as you behold the day,
.
By this wisdom
So overly nourished
For no reason
But its own gore.