It seems that beauty comes in jars we buy
with time and money dealt again, again.
We need those paints for canvases of skin
as each new age-defying trick we try,
enslaved to perfect images that lie.
We redesign our destinies to win
An immortality of form and then
our strength still wanes and fails, and bodies, die.
So choose a life of beauty, not a face.
Throw off the whip of fleeting whims and fears
and happily your given lot embrace.
And as your youthful visage disappears,
let weathered hands extend the gift of grace,
and wrinkles trace the smiles of the years.