In her youth

She spoke to me in the words of the older,
much as though she were trying to catch me,
much as though she were in love.
And I could see between her words
that she is and was
and will always be.
For that first trust
amongst the loss of innocence and joy
is so precious and eternal.

And as I told her my feelings
she was smiling,
her blinking breaking each feeling like cinder blocks
for sale to the highest bidder.
I am no salesman,
yet I cannot stop my auction for affection.

And I never meant to shatter Hope,
but all is lost on her and her fellows in your shade.
I can no longer be the bastard,
lest I sacrifice my passion another uncountable time.
In her youth, she would be beautiful,
as in adolescence and in maturity
were she the most beautiful flower of spring.
And alas, I am torn between freedom and horror,
for in chaos I am born,
yet in freedom I shall drown.