A weathered face stares back,
And it’s wrinkles echo it’s pain,
And in the mirror’s reflection,
Tears have left their stain,
The figure’s experiences can not be seen,
Yet through the years they’ve left their mark,
While underneath a golden tan,
Love lives in utter dark.
Darkness becomes an ally,
For in shadows the image is hid,
Comfortable with the knowledge,
That love becomes the soul’s lid,
Though in the darkness it’s hard to see,
Does it even really matter,
For judgement comes from everywhere,
Deemed somehow the mad hatter.
Sanity holds a tenuous grip,
Sometimes hiding among our dreams,
While in the reflection that we see,
Live distant primal screams,
Likened to an unopened book,
Only the cover is seen,
Can we see that the pages,
Hold so much in between.
If we only look at the image,
Can we understand what lies beneath,
Or are we filled with ignorance,
The product our assumptions bequeath,
Are we able to look past the cover,
To know what lies within,
Or are we stuck on the finish,
Forgetting where love begins.
Any face can be weathered and scarred,
The image seen maybe our own,
But in the lines and wrinkles,
Is the proof that love has grown,
A word may never be spoken,
Yet unspoken it still is real,
And as we look at the facade,
There’s no way to tell what they feel.
Our harshest judge is ourselves,
A critic without a voice,
Yet through the course of a life,
Love becomes a choice,
Faith and hope and even dreams,
Can live though their unseen,
And no matter how the image seems,
On love the soul can lean.

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