it clings helplessly to the skull
like an overripe fruit
ready to drop on the
or perhaps a child’s
play-sticker, loosely gripping
blood and what-have-yous.
it never really reveals itself;
it only shows its smoothness
and curves or some
clandestine scars here and there.
it parades its flaws or its enchanting
beauties, but never actually revealing
in the sense of some burning, un-burnt bush;
always, always concealed by
tightly shut eyes.
it hangs precariously to the skull,
un-revealed, imperceptibly slipping
and pulled by a certainty
that is gravity
or that more certain something
we humans call age.