4.24.12 (child)

every day
i see it:
skin,
wilting
like flowers,
devoid of
light,
of water.
hair,
sprouting
like vines
from every pore.
skin,
discolored
like molded bread.
each day
this fate
edges ever closer,
to the day
that i too
ripen with age
and in passing
return
to dust.