By Claude Hill
The ‘crowning’ in itself is a temporary reign,
Of the human face’s fleeting name.
What is gained is the showering…
Of short lived fame.
A platform for all to become like their idol’s rise.
Upon a space of grace.
Where pride blinds us all
To be the flowing beauty from within.
Let us not pretend till the end.
When the mirror reveals our counted days.
Sagging eye lids,
And baggy chin…
Ravaged, wrinkled breasts.
Dried up raisin like balls.
Hanging in its ruins by age’s demand.
So, the lived woman and man
Now bent back
Trying….. but gave up trying to stand up straight.
Has given completely to their hereditary’s fate,
Giving away beauty
Giving away sexy
Giving away legs
Giving away and now;
Hung up for the last time their
Prancing memories and its youthful age.
For my crown has fallen from
My head to…
And then my feet.
Is this my aging defeat?
Of course, I wish I could live those days again;
However, at my age what else do I have to defend.
For I get the spoils of an old age.
And countless grand kids,
Who are so addicted to their gadgety trends.
After all I hope that, as I come to my end;
That I become one of their trends that never ends.
In their lasting memories of me.
After I fade from this mortal scene,
I hope all those that come after me;
Will get the benefits of growing into the golden years of their collected days’ wisdom’s being.