Subterfuge.

As if the slow, meticulous etchings of time,
upon any face, consumed also, immoderate
flux in its workings on physiognomy and all.
It would surprise, to view, disjunctive, brows
raised and sallow mouth - oddly conjoined.
Nature intrigues with us yet we are in its
communion, melded in the cells, to follow,
to listen if we care, to eternality at work.
What conspiracy outdoes nature's work? To
frame us in such lurid light as bleaches
her away.  Some subterfuge akin to other
rules, some aberration yet unknown.  
It is not gentle, deep, recurring.