At first sight, I will
Embrace my silver hairs.
Signs of my own mortality;
Reminders that all grows old.
Weak joints and muscles can
Fuck off politely, but
Grey locks will be answered
When they knock on my door.

No estimated-time-of-arrival,
That's part of the surprise.
One can only surmise the
Ewer from which, they pour
Over my head is age,
Not shock.

There will be no plucking
Of follicles; receding lines
Make every strand precious.
And I say, 'Hell no!' to dying;
I might as well scorch then
Salt the earth. Let nature run
Its course; Never agile, always
Gradual--The subtlety of life
Is what I value.