Vanity Revisited
A moment briefly conquered
In the mind is but a thread
Which tends to wind about
A fleshly spinning spool and
Along a curving space from
Withered hands to milky face,
Like the acquiescence
Of a sigh that in its time
Would choose to lie within
The womb of larger breaths,
Until a catalyst should find
The catalexis to unwind
A fleshy spinning spool of
Age en masse, a knotted
Mat of leaves of grass, until
The waxing hubris lights
The denouemential blaze though
Nothing marks the moment razed.
By: Chance Henson
