These women who are constantly
Battling for love's each silly pride,
Are searching just a vacant ocean
For some kind of miraculous tide.

The skin they fit seems useless
For it is no match for perfection,
And the scars and the wrinkles laugh,
Demanding an incorporeal reflection.

What will you scathe and battle
Once each wrinkle is dead and gone?
If you have never seen the weak
You cannot say you are strong.

So flaunt the smiling, giggling lines
That age has blessed upon your face
For can we say we've truly lived,
If life was an ageless, backwards race?

by Alison Rosalie

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