I’m really not as old as you perceive,
it’s turn of light that alters your impression.
How strange that we should count our age in years,
from the very moment that we’re birthed;
or maybe clock starts ticking at conception.
Perhaps it is a matter of perception:
how we view our lives from inside out.
While Time, that ticking Master of Deception
plays puppeteer without discrimination,
and in the view of mirror’s sad reflection
an older face stares out in disbelief.
In my mind I’m thirty-five years old—
some twenty-five more added for good measure;
more savvy than that early, carefree youth
and cognizant from years of introspection
that each one ages different, underneath.
There’s no deflecting natural progression—
each wrinkle gained and every single crease;
we overlook each line and imperfection
discerning life with youthful affirmation
until the moment that this heart should cease.
© Ginny Brannan 2016
|Google Images: Used on multiple sites and articles.|