Every blemish
In your mirror
Is evidence
Beauty dwindles
As result
From trading places
With the face
All yearn to sell

By consequence
Of death
And its judgments
Creeping slowly
Through that youth
We take for granted
Like our faith
Assumed to grow

If existence
Wasn’t vain
But less proud
Than narcissistic
Finding flaws
Are most attractive
When they nurture
Humble grace

Letting hairlines
Fallen gray
Peter out
To prove recession
Is that blessing
Stealing glamour
Aging boldly
Without fear

Telling highlights
Of their lives
Before turning
Faintly silver
Stalling fate
Just one more moment
Waiting staunchly
For this chance

Speaking volumes
Though they break
Seeing cracks
Form at these edges
Praying wrinkles
Aren’t sketches
Of each soul
Which harbors doubt

Trying hard
Appearing new
While inside
Such fissures thicken
Splitting widely
Tearing open
What old crevice
Lies beneath

Hiding hatred
Towards themselves
Which we call
Our fleeting image
On God’s Earth
Assumed as soil
Yet in truth
Is made of glass.

– J. Pigno