Beards


I worry about being weird,
about waking up with a full-grown beard.
Then finding I need to live in a cave-
but never the need to groom or bathe.
High in the mountains, some place remote.
Conversing only with trees and a few billy goats.
Of finding I lack the common tie,
to people and life existing outside.
Thoughts of lost youth, of aging too quick-
of a soul that will wander, lonely and sick.
How life was once meaningful,
a love tender, divine.
How needs were once touch,
for a heart so blind.
What happens to love that finds no safe-haven?
Does it find a cave and grow a beard,
alone and unshaven?

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