And what shall become of you
When Time’s hands have done their art?
Crayons of hue re-coloured you in shades of dusk,
Graffiti etched upon your brow,
Flawless grace reduced to caricature,
Once impeccable beauty redrawn abstract
And the stains of his oils mock your portraits?
His fingerprints plastered across the wall of your soul:
Your essence withered to the stench of pending death
And your confidence shaken to infirmity,
Shall these suitors, princes in Chevrolets -if not to dust returned-
Still whistle their impotence through toothless smiles?
Bite deep into the flesh of youth but wary the stone,
Cast by those who perceive themselves sinless
Should three words turn to three letters.
I do not wish disease, pestilence or plague upon you,
Only true fruits of old age, regrets grown
To appreciation of possibilities
Chastised by the rod of Time for the road not taken,
Insolence blossomed to wisdom;
Blind valour to meditation.
Subtle pencil strokes to Time’s masterpiece evolved,
While I on his easel remain a fool,
Loving you in more earnest than when I was a boy.