vintage wine
In the quiet hours of twilight,
When shadows lengthen and memories bloom,
I find solace in the lines etched upon my skin,
Each wrinkle a testament to a life well-lived.
The laughter lines around my eyes,
Like delicate spiderwebs spun by joy,
Tell stories of sun-kissed days and moonlit nights,
Of love shared and dreams whispered.
And the furrows on my brow,
Those furrows that once bore the weight of worry,
Now cradle wisdom like ancient tree roots,
Anchoring me to the earth’s gentle embrace.
I am not fading; I am ripening,
Like a vintage wine, mellowed by time,
My heart a well-worn book with dog-eared pages,
Filled with laughter, tears, and quiet contemplation.
So let the years weave their silver threads,
And let the seasons paint my hair with snow,
For I am not defined by the passing of days,
But by the love I’ve given and the kindness I’ve sown.
And when the final chapter beckons,
I’ll close my eyes with gratitude,
Knowing that I’ve danced with life,
Aging gracefully, like a timeless melody.
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