I’ve envied the young, who have youth on their side, which shines its own beauty, which they might deny, while posturing ugly (all shaved up the side, leaden in work boots which thundering thighs are drawn to devise distraction from, still, irrefutable eyes, shrouded in black and funereal lines, shining beyond scribed defiance of pink, red rimmed as maybe from drugs or just drink)

but now that I’m older and still like to think

I’ve just as much life left as I had before

it’s pretty I crave, ugly I abhor. 

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