Locks of Betrayal

At 2 am, I stare into the mirror
Holding a pair of scissors
Cutting the two strands of hair
Of betrayal in my much adored locks
My body's insistence on acknowledging time
Of an old desire to grow up too soon
And a present dread of how true it has become
This wish to be older
To play real
The grown up games of choices
I cut the silvery strands of absent wisdom
With a half-acknowledged realization
That the years creep into my bones each day
The hair, only a sad reminder
I resist.

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