Basin
Her tap runs
Every night
To wash away
New paint
Her gutters dark
With shadow lines
Wrinkles deep
Creeping in
Showing off
True design
The mirror shows
An old face
Left behind
No making up
For father time
The mirror glows
With stretched lobes
Burdened long
With gem stones
Precious loads
Condemned to face
Their years alone
For when age condones
Her passing bones
The stones are left
To peeling walls
Raining dust
On naked floors
Captured as the mirror's own
Every night
To wash away
New paint
Her gutters dark
With shadow lines
Wrinkles deep
Creeping in
Showing off
True design
The mirror shows
An old face
Left behind
No making up
For father time
The mirror glows
With stretched lobes
Burdened long
With gem stones
Precious loads
Condemned to face
Their years alone
For when age condones
Her passing bones
The stones are left
To peeling walls
Raining dust
On naked floors
Captured as the mirror's own
posted by Ultra Toast Mosha God at 1:38 AM
1 Comments:
You've captured it well, the weight of age and gravity that begets weight in other places - the face, yes, but the heart more so, I think. Adding weight to weight seems a weird way to try to lighten the load, eh?
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