The Weight of Years

The mirror hums a gentle tune,
Of lines that trace the waxing moon.
A silvered thread, a softened gaze,
The echoes of forgotten days.

Once, hands that carved through time’s embrace,
Now linger slow, with softer grace.
The pulse of youth, a fleeting spark,
Now beats beneath a twilight arc.

The world grows quiet, shadows lean,
On memories lost and those between.
Each wrinkle tells a tale retold,
Of laughter fierce and sorrows bold.

The oak that bends, though roots run deep,
Knows wisdom born where winds do sweep.
Its branches bow, yet still they rise,
To touch the ever-changing skies.

So let the years like rivers flow,
With currents soft and undertow.
For time may steal what flesh once knew,
But leaves the soul a broader view.

And in that space where age will dwell,
A beauty grows no words can tell—
The kind that lingers, warm and whole,
The quiet triumph of the soul.