age

In the mirror, I trace the lines,
each one a whisper of days gone by.
Youth, a fleeting dream,
slips through my fingers like sand.

I remember the fire,
the reckless abandon,
chasing dreams with wild eyes,
never fearing the fall.

Now, silver threads weave through my hair,
a tapestry of wisdom,
but oh, how I long for the days,
when the world was new,
and every sunrise a promise.

The laughter lines,
etched by joy and sorrow,
tell stories of a life well-lived,
yet, in quiet moments,
I yearn for the simplicity,
the innocence of youth.

Why do we fear the passing years?
Why do we hide from the truth?
Age is not a defect,
but a testament to our journey,
a map of where we’ve been.

In the stillness of night,
I close my eyes,
and for a moment,
I am young again,
dancing in the moonlight,
carefree and wild.

But morning comes,
and with it, the weight of time,
a reminder that youth is a memory,
a beautiful, bittersweet echo.

So I embrace the years,
the changes they bring,
for in every wrinkle,
there is a story,
a piece of my soul.

Age is not a defect,
but a beautiful art,
a testament to the life I’ve lived,
and the dreams I’ve yet to chase.