It is so undeniable that the older I get
the more time spreads on my skin
in my flesh, to my bones,
the more beauteous I become in the true eyes.
I have learned it is timelessly useless
to rely on something temporal like youth.
Being timeless is like
water that incessantly springs back
from corrugation, soilage and murk
to the calm and lucidity.
I know the golden grains of wisdom
will sprout out of me like wheat stems,
now then the time has tilled my skin
and water, clear, has rained
on my parched lips.
I know how prolific I am
when my mind, my body and soul
are plowed by the plough of age,
and the vines of my wrinkles
elongate to my holy grail,
and my barrel blossoms
in red roses of chalices,
and my flowerbed beautifies by intoxication,
and my intoxication by epiphany
and poetry.
I know when I age,
when the waters are wrinkled
with waves of deep currents
questing for their ends
streaming to endlessness
in incessant cycles
Searching for calm
in endless currents
returning all the commotions
back to inertia.
Without waves
nothing would ever propel.
Nothing would ever rise
without digging some depth.
These scars, these pains,
define my beauty.
And my vision
branches out of my eyes, on my face
and my insight,
roots outward on my skin,
and spatters into the space,
on my path, on my trace,
to be the lineaments
of my everlasting benison,
and grace.
