Time may turn coal to a diamond
but also a plum to a prune;
I’m gaining not facets but wrinkles,
and it’s happening too soon.
It’s rarely we are at the dusk
the same as we were at noon;
The instrument that once played well
must go out of tune.
Gods of marble will soften,
no matter how well they are hewn,
and time erodes even mountains;
nothing is immune.
I look in the mirror and see
a poorly drawn cartoon
of the likeness vanity made;
time's burst my balloon.
Stephen Brooke ©2015
A bit of light verse (or maybe doggerel)