My years have made me weary. I know neither love nor hate and all romance has lost its flavor.
The notes of would be lovers fall flat on my ears.
A ray of sunshine and a place of comfort feeds my soul.
A warm blanket knocks the chill in the winter of my life.
The struggle with your own mortality can drain the art from your imagination.
As for me, the fear of becoming useless paralyzes me.
I long to slumber under the shade of an old tree.
HR Davis