there used to not
be the grey rim of
or the silver moonlight trapped in
SEAfoam rushing in to end upon a sunless shore.
a part of the deserting hair gone
AWOL from the follicle fence function that at dawn was a firm arrogant line
now minutes after noon, just a whispered second over rise of day constructs a noir riche rude fade as poor as its soft disappearance from 4head, temple and nape.
And the hair has parted in a dull whimper of prestidigitation, a minstrels slight of a white gloved sambo hand, and not the lions ROAR on gnats wings men conger potions and moans to undo and as I try to follow the wind to glean where the hair goes and does not go to reside without me i come to accept alas @g3