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