Poetry, The Poet's Final Friend

And shall it be that Man denies the essence of his soul, Such that he rarely laughs or cries, maintaining self-control? Without so much as thought or whim, desire borne of hope, But merely clinging just to him, for courage meant to cope? Or should it be that love transcends just like a miracle? I guess, in truth, that all depends if Man in love would fall… Yet should Man love sincerely so, with all his heart and mind, To court fair maiden, let love grow, another heart to find, Perchance that God grants happiness that spans across the years, Then such as this seems bound to bless and still a hope that cheers… Yet until then, when love draws close, I walk this Earth alone, Confined to merely writing prose, until true love is known… With past loves done, no longer fun, no lady love is mine, As yet, no need to buy someone gifts from this Valentine… To pine proves not the answer, yet the lonesome heart beats on, Numbed to the core, borne of regret, that all such loves have gone… Old men lament their loneliness, unloved until life's end, To learn nobody else cares less or seeks these as a friend… So find true love while in your prime, not when you're old and grey, If you can't find true love sublime, you'll rue each lonely day… Denis Martindale May 2017.