If the slow, meticulous etchings of Time,
upon any face, consume us slowly
with such gross flux in its awful workings
on physiognomy and all else besides,
am I not now so surprised, to gaze upon,
in some harrowed, inharmonious brow
fraught reappraised and near-evaporated youth
oddly conjoined.
Nature cruelly intrigues with us and yet
we cling, mere devoted objects in its Communion,
melded in the cells to follow, to listen for, to witness
enamelled, snailing eternality at work.
What sharp conspiracy would outdo Nature’s work?
To frame us in such lurid searching light
as would bleach and melt Her away.
Some clumsy subterfuge,
applying new rules,
small wicked aberrations;
beguiling smirking transgressions
Time will just wash away.
