The face in the mirror
was etched with the lines of life,
each one telling a tale,
chiselled by the unpredictable
winding path of time;
telling stories of tears and laughter,
despair, hope, sorrow, joy,
love and hate.
A map of a journey travelled
through the passing years
that had raced by far too swiftly;
deeply carved reminders that youth
had long since been and gone,
never to return.
One stood out from the rest,
it was the deep groove of regret.
Regrets of things not done,
of things that should have been done,
of things not said,
of things that should have been said.
Too late now for changes to be made,
life’s sculpture almost complete.
The face turned from the mirror,
resigned to the metamorphosis
of a face which was once so alluring,
putting a line under acceptance.