Wrinkles and Grey

The wrinkles on my face,
the lines on my forehead,
the crow's feet under my eyes
all expanding further,
like tentacles gnawing away at my life.  

My fast greying hair, 

from which conversations sprouted-

I feigned modesty at compliments-
that too, just unprettied itself out.

Now my discoloured hair, limp,
like a beggar woman's curses 
shouted from across the street.

The skin on my hands has begun to shrivel 
slathering gallons of lotions it defies.

It cannot be held at abeyance any longer,

the quick-paced, relentless beating of time

Head reeling from the horror,
I recoil
I retreat from the mirror -

that image isn't mine.

Beyond my control, 

slave of time

my skin and my body-

but not my mind.

When I close my eyes 
from behind the weary brow still shines 

the toothy smile of the little girl. 

Bright, self-conscious, awkward 

and hope lingers, unfounded,

in the dark bright pools of her eyes.

You live on,  
little girl, 
in hopes and in smiles-
I've weathered many a storm
I'm still alive.