Markings

You have grown a beard I see, does it reflect wisdom or masculine frivolity
Is it a mask of disguise covering all but revealing eyes quality
Rust upon a page, a layer of dust caught in cobwebs of age
Does it hold your secrets within, burying a receding weak chin
Is it a shadow over dangerous terrain or a carelessly spilled stain
A wild forest of the insane or combed distinction of the vain
Golden mane hero within, or churlish tuft concealing sin
Hiding wrinkles written in skin, a journal of where you've been
From cave to modern society's din, time's dark markers on a chin