Old wisdom says our faces are a gift
until we’re thirty, then we each become
the author of our own. To shift and lift
by artificial means appeals to some,
but as for me, I’ll go au naturel.
The story that’s unfolding on my mug
is published line by line in runes that spell
long-overdue contentment, with a shrug
of bittersweet remorse for punctuation.
Each burst of joy and melancholy sigh
converge in symmetry on my creation
for all to see. It’s written on the fly.