You are the summer, ravishing and young,
that craves a harsher touch, a fatal change.
You prune with swords to fight thoughts on your tongue
that cry intelligence and worth estranged.
And yet, you find yourself reflected gray,
your straw (once green) littered with blemished seed.
That shrinking flesh sating cracking decay,
peers to the sky with envy, paying heed.
You wish for cold and dandelion tears
to cradle like a mother never lost.
With grey disguise to hush away your fears,
the mirror begs to warp and crack with frost.
Look in your eyes reflected not yet old.
Blow out the candle– it reflects the cold.
