Morning was it when sleepy heads stand on both feet.
And Mother birds come from an all night seek.
The sun spreading light above the mountain peak.
To signal the morning life beat.
I face the mirror bewildered in crooked brows.
Seeing my reflection marked with little roads.
18 years have passed and more years to blame.
How they stole away the fresh porcelain.
The Fountain they say was never true,
Nor the falls that flow as mountain dew.
To bring back the youth that once was mine.
Slowly it fades, with the sands of time.
Outnumbered by the dryness of the cells within.
The Heart, it pumps seem an endless task.
My hungry Brain, a lot questions have asked.
We grew tall, lanky and
tired.
Jobless, old and beauty
denied.
Rotten, hag with gauzy
hair.
Trapped, and swimming
in depths of despair.
The little roads are lines of many smiles expressed.
In 18 years to counter moments of depress.
In everyday we lived, and are called mature.
The world breathes, as we become the sweetest manure.
I had myself as inspiration for this poem, for I noticed the gradual aging process in my body, my soul and mind. I thought about Mother Gothel from Tangled, where she can adamantly restore her youthful appearance through Rapunzel's crowning glory, which is blonde. Although enough verbal evidence told me already that I look younger for a college student, I still long to go back to the times where I play in the neighborhood and climb trees (all sorts of trees). *sigh
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