I’d never grow the beard
The billowy cotton ball of distinction
A definable mark of classification
From one great thinker to the next
Getting frustrated with infant limitations
And becoming lost within the movements of the day
To gaze into any mirror
Eyes to eyes, I’ve seen them before
A mane to border jawline and highbrow
Tempting lovers and hiding those looks of
questioning wonder
What will become, if and when, red turns to gray, to white
Mimicking the strands down the
faces of whiskers and partially hiding the whispers
of the deep introductions into the
very being of the various lives to live?
The state of mind that seems, within each tiny fingered grasp
Of holding fate closer to heart than balancing the weight on top of head;
The heaviest of utopian dreams that seem
attainable, worthy of the burden to carry, says Sally Paradise
of that place of mind that often changes
to accommodate
what can be said over and over
Written words that claim anything
wondered upon
Thoughts of the everyday, of you and me, of creation
of anything colorfully flourishing at all,
until color does indeed dye a softer hue than the once brighter shade that
loses saturation as the excitement of youth slowly subsides
and succumbs to the affordable gray of wisdom
I feel misrepresented in choice, this
belief of growing old
Learning the lessons, one by one, until gray hairs
remain the only memories of the past;
But call out for attention demanding the acknowledgment
of character, from all of the other quilted bodies with their
mismatched undertones and uneven layers
of relatable temptations, of whatever,
calls to exist
To call a polymath anything, to give it a name at all
instead of the classical tradition of student to master,
and then again master to student,
Age being mistaken for the roads taken
of gaining knowledge, rather than the movie-like perception
on the road
Where we find the
Gypsy trains of Renaissance men and women
dancing through the jungles in their colorful
patterns of metal jingles singing above the group of
women mysteriously chattering, in the story
Where there is always some ancient white bearded man
or semi-toothless, sometimes also bearded, granny
offering their tales of mischief and triumphs and
reliving emotions once passed;
Our elders, who once questioned the kind of feelings examined
by all, and determining our own way of thoughts, right now, like
Remembering those Da Vinci quotes, picturing how
he might look saying anything through his own billowing beard; that
led me to question if there is anyone looking for the
brain in the gilded painting hanging on the wall
or do we all just inherently stumble upon it at the
last stages of life when drawing conclusions is
loud enough for even the next group to hear?
I am grateful for all of the storytellers ❤
