A thing of beauty
Published in
4 days ago
One day you’re eighty, sipping on a lukewarm cup of coffee
It’s quiet in your head, quieter outside
The same life that sprinted and disappeared before your eyes
Is now a static staple, gently beckoning you to your final steps
The next day you’re ten, holding a muddied-up doll
It’s noisy outside your head, noisier inside
Simple experiences that cost nothing to those around you
Have got you furrowing your brows and cursing your delicate bones
You’re the same creation, but never the same iteration
You’re a continuous existence that refuses to take shape
You’re years of sprouting, blooming, wilting and rejuvenating
Your name forever inscribed in different inks and fonts
Aren’t you a thing of beauty?
