You search your glass for golden yesterday—

You seek out joy, yet only sorrow find;

Who is that woman in the mirror you say,

Her looks so wan—fair colors dulled by time?

Dusk shadowed eyes now stare as hope bereft

From that aged rose whose petals, listless, lorn,

Once graced the gardens of the fashioned best

And many glossed lapels they once adorned.

Where is that precious fragrance, ah, the bloom

That lured so many like drab wings to flame?

Where lies the essence that could light a room,

That tigress presence taunting to be tamed?

There stands no greater force to humble pride

Than anguished musings of when beauty died.