A Taste of Ashes

Henry Miller, writing, as he often did,
Of girls who plied their trade,
Said sometimes he would take one on
Out of loneliness and boredom
Although it left the taste of ashes

Of course, he was young then
And so needed the desperate burn
Of unloving penetration to sense
The decay consuming him and her,
The slow smolder and its waste

Ah, Henry, as you grow older
You will know the constant presence
Of that taste
All fire to ash, all iron into rust
All things finally falling, failing, dust

And, yet, you will be saved
By hope, insoucience, gaeity, and joy,
By memory and words,
And even by the fears that haunt your dreams
And send you into streets on sleepless nights