The Aged
He sits, a painted smile upon his face,
Failing to hide his discomfort in his own skin;
The makeup feels like just another mask,
But the tears are real.
A hat and cane lie, discarded by his feet,
The former crumpled, the latter broken.
He forsakes his act,
The jovial nature,
Ever smiling face,
The bringer of joy.
Forever, finished with the young.
As the wrinkles swallow the makeup,
He lies still, a painted smile upon his face,
Which has failed to hide his discomfort in his own skin.
<Deleted User> (5646)
Wed 27th Aug 2008 22:36
Hi Jordan,
Your poem reminds me of one of those rare, expensive pieces of china figurines one would buy at an antique fayre or pottery factory.
There is a good likeness in the lines of your write in comparison with the painting of an old mans portrait.
Love Janet.xx