Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry

Love’s Futile Quest

Love’s Futile Quest

I don’t know you, though I wish we’d met
at another time, place, or lifetime
when possibly the world was young and we
might have been, we might have been
together or
were it in the stars, to have loved you as
I yearn to love another, is it possible I ask
that power that I beseech (and not believe in)
one never knows where the heart might lead
or who might enter this small domain, my
life, fragile unbending, unyielding as it is

I focus, looking down at my wrinkled hands
with age spots and fingers becoming claw-like
the rest of me follows suit
in gay life I’m not hot material for sex
for dating, for love, but
the heart within cries for that which I never
found in my youth, blurred as it was by
relentless pursuit of love, confounded in a
craving for sex and drugs, and lost
perusing an addicts restless prowl for
drugged indifference and haze

now, and now, and now that time and
sobriety have left me open to the possibility
though age declares that what I so desire is without
the realm of probability
and then, and then, and then do I shrivel up
die, hide, curse my age and what it brings?
or find that love within these pages where
rejection can come only from a publisher

men see me not as I am, but what I portray
oft a comic figure, bedecked and jeweled
in 1970s parlance, a nellie queen living an old
lifestyle best left behind in Hollywood’s daze
today, an anachronism, but still me, as old
folks tend to settle in that perfect time
when in the past when they were young and beautiful, in
their own minds, at least, and so I’ve done
I’m not finished with this love that doesn’t seek
me out as I wish to be sought, knowing full well
that boys and younger men cannot fulfill this desire
their journeys are far outside the realms of
possibilities as they move up to their full
potential and I sink down into mine

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