Youthful notions dissipate in the experience dustbowl,
Whipped away by the corroding dirt.
It’s a devil full of hard color.
The child knows no bitter taste,
But the adult constantly lozenges,
Face pinched in a sour grimace.
Our sonless wives nagger us,
Their pitched voices grating,
As they critically self-satisfy.
You who know the sense of loss,
Weep with me in dire remonstrance.
For we are specks of dust on an angry sea,
Raisined hands grasping for a shattered ego-oar,
Tossed about without a will,
Strewn about without a soul.
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