wobert

wobert

Brunswick East, Australia

our gift [poem]

I feel the breath of the maker working overtime
I can taste the salt in the wind that blows my hair aside
My cheeks are red, worn from the kiss of time
Wrinkles now edge my eyes, added character, added pain
Handsomely ugly, boyishly old, I balance unsteadily somewhere
I stretch my arms out, into the light
I see my fingers turn golden
Do I walk forward, do I crouch in adoring shame?
The choices lie before me, the book is blank in front
Never take the mirror for granted
Never expect your food to smell good
Expect that you will learn to survive
We have a knack for it
It is our gift

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