Hair
At first it is pigtails, braids,Soothed, combed by a mother,
It floats, a sun-kissed cloud,
Around a face of innocence,
At first it is Young.
It's older now, darker, longer,
Tortured, twisted around brushes,
Heated, Sprayed, Teased,
Cursed when it refuses to conform,
Now, it is Uncertain.
Older still, even darker, longer,
Embraced, it falls soft,
Through the hands of a man,
It tumbles, silk and free,
Older still, it is Abandoned.
Just old now, thinner, gray,
A Shade of former glory,
Still touched by the hands of a man,
"So Beautiful," he says,
And it is Young, Uncertain, Abandoned...
Loved.
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