Time
Time is a man with a chisel,
Sculpting valleys of sharp folds
Into silken hands.
Whittling away youth, softly,
He is an artist at work:
The silver tip of his tool
Glides over smooth skin,
Making a valley of rough rind
Cover all.
The young woman on the street
Is time’s newest muse.
Her gleaming sapphire eyes
Erode into the years,
Until nothing but a dull grey remains.
Sallow, sagging skin envelops her face,
Draping loosely over her skull.
Wrinkles creep up to
The corners of her eyes
As shadows slant like sunken grottos
Beneath her lonely stare.
Once the artist’s work is done,
The woman disappears into the age.
Suddenly
Life comes forward,
And the old woman rises,
Soft skin new as a quilt of snow,
Like a phoenix
Reborn
From the ashes of time.
- Epitome's blog
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What to say...
Honestly I liked it alot, except for the third stanza. I think you should figure a way to cut that out, it doesn't seem flowing to go from the artist to the woman. Focus on the artist, who he is, we already know what his masterpiece is. Good metaphor for time nonetheless
With all sincerity,
--The Bleeding Bridesmaid