Finally caught up...
Anti-Aging Cream
I could press myself into a book of wax
like a rose petal or a red fallen leaf.
Plucked, born into this world
I could preserve myself a little longer.
Yet my you would not last
even the pressed flower is only half
its newly budded self,
rather it wilts and browns,
its fragrance a shadow
smells of earth and rot.
Even its thorns have lost its cut.
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