The Sigh of Death

The old, they age exquisitely.
None the less equivalently.
Their dreams don't beg.
On one live leg.
As dust they soon become.
Like stars their souls made from.

And vanity, edging near.
The open door and the broken mirror.
Are lost in time to dwell,
On heaven, or in hell.

And in the deepest moon.
The orange horizon's bloom,
Their last breath of sighing.
Be known that death is rising.

And with just one reflection.
The spell cast in perfection.
Up they rise to fall again.
As better women, as better men.