Not so long ago my sagging skin was flawless, dewy, moist and pure.
Blackheads, acne and all those pussy plagues never came my way to prey.
My slim thighs and ample butt were renowned for their awesome evocative lure.
Anon, with speeding decades past my shape has lost its youthful glorious day.
Care has been taken to save this corpus from the ravage of sun and harsh environs.
This bloated visage in the mirror each morn my aged-dim eyes must now delude.
A closer look upon the glass reveals my wrinkled face could use a good hot iron.
Needs be at any cost, a strong aversion against thus being seen completely nude.
Now as an old hen with deep crow’s feet o’er my hawkish beak, I’m carried forth on chicken legs.
When did my upper lip become an ugly furrowed muzzle with rows of pursed lipped care?
Is there no escape for this ravaged old woman reduced to scattered shallow dregs?
Aged it seems by metaphors, my skin is much like paper and lank as straw portrays my hair.
This dawning of my young old age keeps pace with grim realities of my December.
For certain sure, my wrinkly foes remind me of what I’ve forgotten to remember.