THE FINE PRINT

An interlaced face, woven in place

Displaying a wrinkled web of lace

Centuries old, stories are told

In between every line and fold.

An aged and ancient ancestor,

Rigid yet refined

Constantly reminded

Of the past she left behind

Forlorn features, forever to flatter

A ragged haggard, mocking of manner

Blessed by youth, a mirrored image

Reflecting the truth of her obvious scrimmage

So many memories, lost and forgot

Too many moments to fit in one slot

I wonder how much more time she has spare?

I care because one day I’ll be there.

Carey Milton ©