Whose face is this I’m seeing here?
Am I that old? Can that be me?
A zombie has more flesh on bone,
more skin hard-stretched by gravity.
Aghast I ask the mirror once more,
“Whose face is this I’m seeing here?”
“Why, yours, old friend,” it answers me.
“You’re burled wood, much aged I fear.”
Those eyes now lost in canyons deep
and craggy cheeks cannot be mine.
Whose face is this I’m seeing here?
Dare I now honestly opine?
Though jaw has softened into jowls,
my thin-lipped smile remains sincere.
I scratch my scalp, unsure again
whose face this is I’m seeing here.
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