A little poem for Thommy

Up and down on the not so merry-go-round,
There are those who stand and wait while others participate.
It's so easy not to fall in love
But if only fools rush in, what do the angels win?
Too old for playground games,
Wisdom's an old oak trap jealous of willow sap.
Up from under the shame of loss,
Back on the roundabout, only the live ones shout.
The silent might as well be dead.