A wrinkled brow, once smooth with youth and ignorant of time
is furrowed deep o'er steel grey eyes, sunk back into his face.
Thin hair, age whitened, crowns what once was visage, thought sublime
and strange glass orbs, perched on a nose, look odd and out of place.
A chin of chiseled stone has been replaced with two or three
weak mounds of flesh which quiver now and then in silent rage.
All this upon an aching, frail and wizened neck. I see
skin, weathered, much the worse for wear, around bones like a cage.
Broad shoulders, stooped and rounded, still remain within his mind
as work gnarled, calloused hands, bestow a rough sandpaper touch.
Clothes, hung upon his frame, seem much too large and unrefined,
fit yesterday. A young man, which tomorrows came to clutch,
still stares at me each morn and nods his head, it seems, with glee.
With unbelieving awe and wonderment upon my face
I stare right back and recognize what has become of me.
The pennants of long life are worn with pride; not sad disgrace.