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By DesDownunder ?2009

Too soon I see the reflection of age,

In the old man before me still standing.

It seems funny that he thinks he is me,

Because I feel much younger than he looks,

He appears so much more amazed than me,

At my youthful wanton aspiration,

But through his fa?ade, I can see the need,

For our close shave as we search together,

Beneath the stubble for unwrinkled skin,

It's not moisturiser or aftershave,

But the cruel harsh light of morning sun,

That makes old skin glow with apparitions,

Of faded youth now trapped in sagging chains,

That cannot strengthen withering muscles,

But hides them in folds across aching bones,

With loose skin, speckled by the rusts of age,

Not air and water made, or washed away,

In pulsating showers or steamy baths,

Nor towelled off by cotton fluffy tufts,

Bristling the few remaining hairs on limbs,

That yet stand; still reach; and hold onto life.

The bare faced truth of the bald headed man,

Is my resignation to this pretence,

Of memories reflected in my mind.

To nimbly comb my head without much sense,

Makes only my own self-image the fool,

To laugh at the foolish man's reflection.

This mirror curses with truth, hides its lies,

And then condemns me to self ignorance,

So I might deny my love for living,

But my old rage is cantankerousness,

Born of youthful ambitions unfulfilled,

And won't be deceived by some looking glass,

Into thinking that dotage precludes life.

I wonder that he can stare me in the face,

With those false twinkles in his mirrored eyes,

That are really the sparks of life in mine,

Still laughing with attempts to be so wise.

For what is youth if not desiring wisdom,

And lusting hope, for another orgasm?

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