Fill

Wisps of my jet black hair

Turn wisdomly grey, 

Turning at probes from the comb, 

Turning at the long and short of it, 

Turning to tell you death

Is approaching, tippy-toeing

As surveyor of the ways 

I have lived and loved 

Through centuries spent

In a matter of decades. 

Dewlaps form around your settling

Belly full of stories, comforting 

In their sameness to all 

Those who care to walk the street

Looking ahead, only ahead. 

You and I, we imagine beauty

In the fading of known skin

And eyes that speak the truth

Along with a million lies. 

Where dewlap meets grey 

The comb slicks down 

The doubts further away, 

So that love can spring from winter

And have its fill, yet another day.

(Photograph source - Spartacus International)