What is it that you see in older men
The quench of insatiable want, I find
For wanting the better half of a wise conscience
Better known for to humor you, my love
Redefine yourself through the security, between encased struggle
Drawn from the richness of their rudimentary reserves you’re to measure by
Burgeoning rouse towards your mature peak appearing small
You can’t help it, dearest, to not rush past
The comfort in your young
Swollen with compliments
To your smart pride, considering the swift current hidden behind
Cherub cheeks, the often unseen attribute given hindsight
Hopeless bandwidth of one’s age urging reach at most, to
Know what you only don’t know, granted enough wit to seek settlement
In kind,
Not yet enough to precede the draws of the earth, still
Too much so to be still
And we haven’t been made still at all