Hair
M
Mark R Slaughter
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At the barber’s chair
the spent hair fell
I balked at yet
another depth of grey
age will pay
for Death is winking
and as it caught my wrinkles
with coarse and wiry haulms
it jeered and sneered in fun
another run
towards a keen but
patient stone
denoting where
so soon
I’d lie alone.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
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