What is beauty, this mystery that shrouds my skin?
This thing that casts an odd glow on my rather-not-mentioned sins.
Here I stand with wrinkles and lines, still the same person only slower,
Still the same person only duller.

Do my lines define me?
I think they do…
They define not what I think of myself but what is viewed of me.
I’ve grown to loathe all the grey bits that sporadically appear on my head,
Not until I’m fifty! Or closer to agéd death.

How does one keep their cool while trudging this line called life?
How does one stop the clock that slowly penetrates the nights?
My greys and aged skin do not bask humbly by the window –
Willingly waiting for moments of thrilling youthful endeavours.

I, nay, we all sit by this folly,
Braving the days… or maybe not so much bravery when it comes to the uncertain.
Still, life gives little choice to those who breathe this air,
And eventually, unless we die young, we all face the call of the aging glare.