So many
Have I known.
Penny after penny
Spent
In the lone
Play
Of cloying scent.

Toying with love of a kind,
I find
Myself destroying
What little I had
In a sad
Fake dance
Of romance.

Some names I remember
(Their May to my December).
But can winter cold
Hold
The summer sun?

May will, for a while
Smile
Through fixed teeth,
Then, ere winter’s fun
Is done
Resile
Ushering in his brief
Grief.

May is gone
And December flirts with June,
But she is soon
Away
To play
With another one,
Though Cupid’s bow
Is never shot.

July
Is a hotbed of sweet sigh
And lie.
Why
Stop there
For August fair
Beckons?

Seconds
Turn to years
And Winter nears
His end.
Why pretend
It was not a life misspent
In scent,
Repent,
And scent.