Seasoned hair,

folds of loose skin

hanging (gravely pulled earthward),

fault lines emphasize years of smiles and sorrow.

We carry our stories here

in our faces.

They read through the language of our souls —

all we’ve seen with these tired eyes,

the melody played to the timbre of our beating heart,

the flavours and patterns splashed across our canvas,

the worn air we’ve inhaled and expelled and shared.

 

 

While the world chases youth,

we’ve become earthen pots

cracked by time

seeping the grace of I AM.

 

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