He enters silently,
leaving no trace of his having touched me while I slept.
He is without conscience in the damage he inflicts
his only concern is marking me, the next day, next month, next year.
Marked with the passage of his unseen, withered hand
I am altered, moment by moment, until
I become a stranger in the mirror.
Escape is impossible.
Time will own me.
But a place of refuge is found, if only temporarily
in a cornucopia of creams and oils, in this battle against the inevitable thief
stealing my youth.
I will go gracefully, before my eventual fall to the winnowing floor
I will, however, go with my thumb in his eye
when he winks me out of Time.
Can I do less?