the bell curve i fear
(contemplating the loss of youth)
were i encased in a plaster shell
made into a mask of these coveted features
a timeless troubadour
without any lines of aging cowardice.
the reverie of my charming wit
would belie the green eyes i flicker at them
as i intake and age
embittered by the shelf-life of beauty
can it be that envy drips from these wounds?
that it is blood that churns within me
and flesh that covers it
wizened by the waxing moons.
might i clutch the counterfeit forever?
or wear it over the sagging epidermal fabric?
might we exist as we are once,
or is all that we need know:
time is truth, and truth time?
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