23. Youth!

You are always belittling me
with the damning epithets of youth.
"I am not your dear", I'd like to say.
But would you listen?
Laugh, perhaps.

But there will be a day
when even
the most endearing smile
has creases and crinkles
'round the edges.
The lips
pale and shrivel.

I will have
the coarsest, grayest hair to comb,
if any at all.
My slender arms, by gravity sustained
unto limper means,
drip and droop.

To you - what am I?
Doll with raven hair, silken;
lips of ruby red -
skin of flaxen gold.

I am always trying to re-label this,
projecting some stranger image.
But this is all I have,
and all I ever will -
so as I treasure it,
I use it as my vendetta,
hopelessly ensnaring you.