The colors of your youth will one day fade
And mark the abdication of your power;
That scepter smile that once your man slaves bade
To tend upon your ever waking hour—
All this shall pass, fumata on the wind,
A minute here, another minute gone
With musings mixed, no providence to bring
Save hollow conquests etched on crumbling throne.
How many consort princes have bowed down
And found their wanton wishes rubbled quite?
Ignominious passage climaxed by a frown,
A day of splendor lost in blackest night.
And when the final light of beauty dies,
What might remains, sans supplicating eyes?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.