50th...

you like the way your hair
denies yo
ur age,
the way your language takes more
color, the sunrises and
rainbows
you like your silence
nothing incriminates you
to the murder of

old age

at 50, you gain more par
value,

antique gold
bowl

sharp sword displayed
still on glass cabinets

useless...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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