Standards of beauty
At Appalachian heights
And a bed I can’t reach sleep in
I try to sleep in past the doubts
But they wake me up
With stomach flipping punctuality:
After all, doesn’t Death
Wait for Nobody?
I think about growing old
I think about infancy
Mine and my children’s
But I always remember
That there’s no guarantee
Never in this life,
Even beauty is subjective
And, like the atomies that construct us,
Our lives are governed by relativity.
The proportion of neurosis to dreaming
Dictates the perceived length of night
And perhaps, the perceived length of life—
Before I uncover more in this vein,
I’ll go back to bemoaning and doting
Upon beauty; at least, quick or dead, the pretty can sleep.