L. B. Mek

Old face


oh, destitute faceless grace

aged and by then - a splintered wreck

how has Time, churned thee


is there still a semblance 

of youth’s whimsical gaiety

in thou stoic-stretched, wilted lips;


these inked musings, aren’t

merely, fear’s - yesteryear yearnings

for I, shan’t ever greet thee


no chosen path ahead, where

thy mirrored self awaits, to be faced

that remnant glint of child, within


has long: since decreed



© L. B. Mek 

May 2020