When time has weighed its measure on your eyes,
And passed its sentence, furrowed deep in  years;
When maquillage  no longer veils the guise—
Deep lines of time traced by your bitter tears.
What polished glass might now sad truth defend,
Or stay the sentence that the years proclaim?
Black truth in lies stands guilty in the end—
Who stays the writ that Heaven’s hand ordains?
You wore deceit like robes of borrowed lace,
And of redemption, prayers were left unsaid,
Love stood a truth you chose to but disgrace
While lust, your creed, left virtue cold and dead.
Despite brushed pigments, time has not been kind,
For life so lived leaves more than truth behind.

©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.