The beauty inside, it gets no older,
While our minds and flesh corrode and deform
Our image of self from foot to shoulder,
Is stripped from our chest, as we must perform:
Since the mind enslaves on an endless stage,
Making life travail, a work of fine art,
Rendered crude by our need to seethe and rage,
The tips of our thoughts stave away the heart:
But the deep might break through to flood the mind,
And you’ll feel this deluge stretch and crack your veins,
In waves so fluent which lessen the grind,
Of mind over might, they loosen the reigns:
If you feel this itch, feel free to express,
The beauty inside we age to repress.