With a wet washcloth you wash your face.

Then the pure white cloth is forever stained,

and you foolishly believe your face is clean.

In the mirror you primp, and you preen,

but just because salt revives the skin

doesn’t make it blemish free.

Every night when you remove the base,

you stare hard and cold at the path you’ve traced;

squeezing the washcloth, in your hand restrained.

And every morning you conceal your sin.

And it works,

‘cause it does hide the darkness within.

And every night,

once again,

with a wet washcloth you wash your face.

Photograph made available by Brian Patrick Tagalong via Unsplash.

A rosebud that blooms begins to die,

But there’s still hope in the petals restrained.

There’s intensity—a swelling energy.

There’s friction, but it rubs deliciously.

The bud is aching to unfold—

It’s story to be told—

Exposed for all the world to behold.

It desires to be noticed—

Time demands the next stage of life;

Nature compels the floret to open.

But if it complies,

The spirit within amplified—

On the surface, fatigues in a moment.

There’s still hope in the petals restrained,

But a rosebud that blooms begins to die.

Photo made available by Vanessa Serpas via Unsplash