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MY FADING SELF
The days seem too long and yet too short,
What is it that I'm toiling for?
What exactly do I fructify
Into the world in my quick haste?
In my early wake and late rest.
To sleep, I'm only a passer-by
Extremely fickle, with resolve decent enough
To meet yet another predetermined obligation.
In my struggle, it's the wrinkles my reward
I'm only 29, but my hands are rough
And cracked like a foot pumice.
I've never considered beauty my core strength;
My mortal flesh, not the best attraction
My work is the only option, the main focus
I figured that if its all I had to show,
Thence doing it best was my most ardent
resolution.
© Maria.M.M
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