Aging
While looking in the mirror today,
he was waiting there for me again.
The hair now yellowing in the gray,
no trace of the tint it once had been.
The boyish grin always in its place,
still there, but now pensively reserved.
That twinkle – sparkle, the interface:
gone now. A fate never well deserved.
Realtime, layers thickly on dreamers.
While the sands fall quietly in vogue.
What will be -- is always the schemer,
while time in itself provides the mode
Why then do we not like what we see?
In the broad scope “what will be, will be"
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