Self Prophecy

If poetry is honesty, I must be brutal
It has been too long and I am no longer what I used to be

Wilt.
Like the old lover
“It’s okay,” my wife will tell me as I clamber awkwardly off her
“We had a good run.”
Bleed.
Like my talent
Left me useless, and spoiled all the rest I’ve been hung out to dry with
Fade.
Like colours in the sun.

Should I?