Because I Do Not Hope to Turn Again

And I’m moribund to watch you regress
Through ages and ages to youth again;
Youth reborn, a child without form, the loss
The end of us marks, and is beyond ken:
You are your formers' education,
Which to me and us remains our beneath;
Our love marked us, our own self-creation,
But your self wrapped now in its former sheath.
My machinations (your aporia),
‘Twas this – my games, my aims – forestalling you,
And naught else; ‘twas this, your paranoia;
And qua judge I judged, my judgement my cue,
To stop us travelling any further –
But your regression to watch me dost murder.