A sonnet occasioned by re-reading poetry that I had written when I was 15 years old.

Stealing up from long discarded pages,
gasping to revive dampened sixties fight,
for my senile breast no longer rages
as did that soul of post-pubescent sprite.
Now jarring, these troubled words and phrases
that poured unfettered once upon a time,
ancient myriad of mournful mazes,
when sex and death and love were nearly mine.

Time-laden greetings, to my callow sire
from me your one-time older wiser son,
for fully fifty years we did conspire
creating that which we have now become.

That now we are really me, and not another,
we can only blame upon the other.