Wednesday, January 2, 2013

old, or unold

in the mirror,
squinting
at the silvery
coiled wires
she pulls
at each one
cursing,
but for every
strand removed
another seems to
move forward
like weeds
unwanted
in the garden
of her dark
and luscious
black hair.
but you love her
just the same,
you tell her,
old, or unold.

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