Relics of the Artificer

Son,
the circuitry of a heart is mercurial alchemy,
yet loathingly must these truths be dispensed
to dispel the heady, illusory fumes of youthful indiscretion.

I know the way the world slows down before a pretty face,
how breath hitches at the sight of thin waists;
I've written the script on endless legs,
and played astronomer to the admiring sun
bursting through the clouds of parting thighs.

I won't ever claim to have charted the cartography of exotic lands,
or traversed all the paths of arching backs,
but I know the tides of this particular sea,
and see the tumult of your future churning frothy.

Loathe am I to impart my heart's calligraphy,
to expound tragically upon the husky breathes
and facile enticements of youth.
Know only that the shell casings of such ballistics
have shorn casually through lesser men,
that such stoic imperviousness does little
to stem the copious flow of misplaced affections.