The Cult of Eternal Youth

This perplexing obsession with reversing time
Consumes and corrupts the most genuine gentles:
From before middle age to the doormat of death,
We court our narcissist twins in their puddles,
Improving our image in every way.
What madness drives this self-absorption?
Why can't we love others as much as ourselves?
The mirror-gazers, the selfie-takers,
The faces eclipsing the beauty spots
That clutter the background in shot after shot;
The sagging clay in the surgeon's hands
That he molds into tighter, more comely tracts;
The pockmarked dolls who apply a crust
Of cosmetics to cover up wrinkles and rifts;
The dieting busts and the fashion bombs;
The lures of artificial enhancements;
The lies we believe and tell others in turn:
How we were so gorgeous, admired, and good
Twenty years in the past, and o if we could
Reclaim that distinction! It is buried within--
"Help me tear off this carapace, blanket of age
That conceals my true being! Help me scrub off this dirt,
This accrual of dust, that encumbers my grace!"
Excuses, excuses, and teary-eyed nonsense!
So desperate are we for moonstruck attention
We denigrate our most valuable virtues.
Be proud of your cladding--let rust and rime shine!
You are who you were and it's more than mere surface;
Celebrate your existence, and salute it in strangers
So that all may rejoice in the fullness of life.