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.
-
Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 19th, 2025 05:19
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments1
Simply beautiful this poem speaks of the perfection and imperfection and cycle of life and death. So well integrated and written in poetic metaphor and rhyme. A wonderful write and a fave
Thank you for reading and commenting as always.
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