There's a change going on I can't see;
is the woman in me dying?
I notice the grays and lines appearing
but something other is steering my course,
the stalk of the Reaper draws close.
When the usefulness of my youth is past
will I at last be free
of the three days of madness
when I want to fuck everything
and the unaccountable sadness
when tears spring at nothing?
Though my child-bearing taken years before
hormones still flood,
tormenting that sore empty spot.
And when it's done, the change complete
will I miss the oestrogen rush
that would see my push and strain at my mate
until sated with release I can sleep?
Will desire still creep and wanton make me
when hot flushes and night sweats
have ceased to wake me?
Will I still burn furious for the press of my lover
or is this another thing I must lose
to time, which refuses to wait or turn?
Will life become colder the older I grow
and passions beat slower in my thickening belly?
I don't want to grow dim,
the lure of skin live without
but no matter my raging this change rampaging
and nothing I do can reverse the trend
though in no hurry am I to find out
regardless my shout to deny this rite
I'll discover what's next, in the end.