Wash Away
I scrub and scrub,
trying to erase stains gravelled upon my face.
Age has defined its mark,
solidified a presence in folds and furrows
raked over a once-smooth fabric now heralding me as old.
These seams line my skin,
years claimed my youth
from time I hadn't known had passed
and disappeared too fast
like thieves in the night
creeping without warning.
I smell that newness born with babes,
Oh, how it escapes me,
leaving soiled flesh in its wake.
I'm alive,
still breathing,
but it's sighs of old.
Vibrancy and youth permeate my spirit
until the mirror silently highlights worn flesh,
illuminating my face and
haunting me like a ghost
forever lurking around me.
When I peer closer I see more yet less of me,
fragments of remaining years shadow daylight gone,
like dirt disappearing from a child's face in the rain,
innocence turned to the sky,
tongue gathering pearls.
Age is dark. Quiet. Unobtrusive. Unwelcoming.
These common threads live to capture us all.
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