The hate in the mirror is bait
& the hideaway of looking older
is skin slackened wrinkle
& the fear is near to the outcome.
I’ve got crinkle hands
with death skin & the secret
in eyes is the cloudy size
of a slow beat beat heart.
You are given to hyperbole
when the arc of your belly
reveals the last meal & the stuck feel
of seconds underneath.
Scar over your left eye
tells people walking by
that you fight for everything why
with worker hands.
It is a sovereign aging that
leaves you wanting
what you told them you have
had enough of.
© Adam Bresson
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