Beauty fades like an etched glass,
Slow, steady and calamitous.
Our clays are porous and so are we;
Wearing away like sheaves unattended.
Our dermis, expired by time,
Seething with wrinkles
Beneath our beauty,
Loosing its fine thread of elasticity
When years unreel.
We are nothing but a mould,
Made of Earth with air revolving
Within the brooks of our lungs.
We are nothing but carefully made dust,
Roaming the Earth in our boots of passion.
We are nothing but a mannequin of dust with
Chew your pride
Don’t spill the water of humility.