Decay (Poetry)

The blush has faded from her cheek,
the bone beneath bird-frail,
her once-firm jawline wobbles, weak,
age-puckered skin hangs pale.

The ghost of beauty haunts her face,
though years have dimmed her eyes,
her magnetism fills the place,
the air’s awash with sighs

as shadows flit across her brow,
her blue-rinsed hair hangs down,
her fingers twist, hands cabled now
with veins and foxed with brown.

Her room’s a shrine to mark her fame,
its glory sheened in dust,
believing things can stay the same
despite the rot and rust.

Youth’s spirit like a candle spent,
its glow dissolved to smoke
but lingering while dreams invent
and memories evoke...

sweet praises long-past lovers sing
since Winter’s had its way,
yet she holds court as if it’s Spring —
lone goddess of decay.