Mirror, mirror...

I look in the mirror and what do I see?
My mother’s dear face has replaced the young me.
Though I do love to see her — it saddens my heart,
for my hair’s getting thin and the crown did depart.
It lounges in bed and decorates the floor.
Please try to stay on my head, I implore.
I won’t feel as sexy without my lush hair,
so do me a favour and hold tight up there.

I see one more wrinkle than last time we met.
A present from Old Father Time, I’ll bet.
He likes to sneak up on us whilst we sleep,
and carve little crevices half an inch deep.
Many a night he will don a disguise,
but the crow leaves his footprints edging our eyes.
He playfully puffs up under eye bags,
and oft hides a turkey ‘neath jowls that sag.

He sucks all the moisture right out of our face,
and makes our mind wander all over the place.
My poor epidermis is papery thin;
red and blue spiders are scattered within.

Our once supple skin sinks in, then heads south.
Luscious lips shrivel; collapse inside mouths.
Our chin gets so lonely it wants a new friend,
so doubles, then triples … is there no end?

Like a well worn room that has been rearranged,
we wake up one day to a face that has changed.
Our noses get bigger and eyes disappear;
hiding in folds, they are hoodwinked, I fear.

Some try to thwart him in all kinds of ways.
Going so far as to have less birthdays.
Spending their money on nipping and tucking,
stapling stomachs and fat thigh sucking (try saying that fast).

Botox and facelifts will work for a while.
If what you want is a porcelain smile;
without laughter lines or a forehead that moves.
Plastic you’ll be, but your skin will be smooth.

Father Time withers the bloom we once had.
Dots us with brown spots. He is such a cad.
He can’t seem to help it, or so I am told,
for time made him bitter, decrepit and old.

I turn to the face who is looking at me,
and make a decision to age gracefully.