Time Is Not A Healer
A poem
A poem
the maps of our journeys, the creases,
life’s etchings across the slate of skin
frame laugh lines,
tributaries of joy
furrowing the earth of our being,
age spots, golden flecks,
stars burning bright,
faded constellations.
wrinkles, riverbeds emptying into oceans
of seasons survived,
the portrait sculpted of the self explored,
each crinkle a road travelled and returned.
Accept the rugged lines
of well-worn beauty our wisdom embodied,
the valleys, the peaks and plains between,
a whole life charted in the face maps,
the human terrain’s
story embedded in the folds of dusk.
honour these etchings, maps of miles roamed,
with all their twists ridges and rises,
our magnificent journeys imprinted,
to be cherished
in the visceral journey of age.
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