The Hand That I've Been Dealt

The mirror used to be my friend;

Alas, those days have reached the end.

I see my face and can’t pretend

I’m anything but old.

 

I guess it’s me beneath the skin

That wrinkles somehow settled in

And make-up couldn’t quite begin

To spin this straw to gold.

 

My earrings still remain in place

And, just like always, frame my face,

But time will not let me erase

Its firm, relentless hold.

 

Yet I’m still in the living game.

The hand that I’ve been dealt I’ll claim

And, though I don’t look quite the same,

I’m not prepared to fold.