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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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