Seasons
My skin is no more fancy clothes
I have worn it too long
Yet in it I must still repose
While the maggots' teeth grow strong
What kind of purpose can there be
For bones that rattle in their bag
For youth and paling mortality
For skin so sagged like worn out rag
They say beauty is on the inside
But when you are old you wish
The first impression was not to hide
What some could know as sweet relish
In the thing on which it gazed. In
A culture where youth is beauty
What shall I do with crinkled skin
That for desire saddles me with pity?
I am the fifth season of the earth
That goes and will not return
For coming once was sadly hurt
When youth my advances spurn.
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