Your drink it sits
As if in wait
You make no movement
From breath you take
Collecting looks
From mens hungry eyes
You believe youre worshipped
In your middle aged lie.
Soon your lips
You will allow
The pleasure gained
Glass to avow
An aging goddess
Whose lives in dream
Things arent the same
But you believe.
As your make up takes
Longer to apply
About crows feet
Around your eyes
All is fantasy
Until the young arrive
You leave your seat
And wave goodbye.
-
Author:
nephilim56 ( Norman Dickson) (
Online) - Published: September 15th, 2026 02:51
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 42
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Paul Bell
Online)
Comments5
Makeup can not compete with youth and time is a cruel taskmaster. Nicely written Norman and a fave
most kind my friend, much appreciated thanks
Always a pleasure
Tremendous work.
most kind, thanks and much appreciation
Good write N.
You thought you spotted a bus in that mirror - but no, a mirage! lol.
so many mirages lol
Yes, the wine might mature with age, but sadly, the ones who worship you are gone, leaving the young who worship another.
It is nice to know we're all replaceable though.
that is true, thanks and appreciation for read
Beauty come from within the mind and heart Norman.
Andy
yes indeed my friend
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.