I look at myself in the mirror,
Teardrops sliding down my cheeks.
Above, impossible to ignore,
White hair at twenty-one years.
For this age,
I cannot disregard the sign,
As I stand // before time's passing once again.

Time's rhythm halts in silence,
Like that lone white feather
On a rooster's tail in twilight.
Colorful white among many hues,
Gently falling, then mud-stained,
Turning to a dull yellow, // at the end,
This is what I witnessed in childhood.
I saw, white to yellow, deep,
So, it becomes black.
To be honest, I believe it,
Though my mother does not.
White hair comes too early // for my age.
What should I contemplate? Say.
What experiences have I gathered?
Think. Defending against my own aging,
As if needing to prove some worth
Knowing early decline means
Either falling into sewers
Or remaining beside the pillow // on my bed.

White feathers descend from the sky.
I know they will soon change,
Turn black, drift white, to,
A fleeting moment of purity.
Until white becomes a spectrum of colors,
A hue beyond description.
I know, I learned.
This is the endless end.