Who is it in the mirror that I see
This pitiable figure staring back at me
The lines across its brow etched deep
For sins and secrets it do keep
For sufferings and sorrows it do bear
Unmistakably visible in its ashen hair
Its hands and face like leather parched
While time impartial onward marched
Its eyes once bright has lost its gleam
For rank regret pervades its dreams
Its gait once dignified once sure
Can't measure up lest pangs endure
No longer there that animate appeal
Just brittle bones that wouldn't heal
No longer there that lust for living
Just treasonous thoughts oft unforgiving
Misty memories of trusted times bygone
Living in testing times wholly woebegone
Life lost love lost never-never to return
And familiarity it no longer can discern
All trace of youthfulness explicitly expired
As age and atrophy inevitably conspired
Gradual abandonment by its reluctant spirit
For the grisly grave it shall soon inherit
Who is it in the mirror that I see
Perchance this presence once was me.
©nomad
D