Wrinkle - Acrostic
Woven lines patterned like the black widow's silk.
Resting upon the face and the hands.
Insidious, the crow perches on skin once like milk.
Nestled in laugh lines, the years' stark demands.
Kings and Queens reign, then they, too, grow old.
Looking back at all the scavengers stole.
Each wrinkle a regret, the grave dagger's dole.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2013
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