Years are faded. And all this reflecting reveals how unhinged it's become, completely disconnected from a frame that once securely held.
Little veins trace deep into what was once golden. So much so, age has cracked here, like withering bodies do in time. And the red velvet lining more pink, white, and mottled, like our spotted, freckled, mole-y skin that also takes up residence from time to time.
'Though some may say "There sits some ol' decrepit piece!", I see the young at heart. The tree, still living with enough gumption to grow a root or two. A place to pop a squat for some shade when you're wearied and hot.
Life is still living because there are leaves to make, limbs to stretch, squirrels and birds to provide a home. In fact, this oak is in it's prime.
Decrepits, 'though leaning a little against the hard metal of it all, are still capable of holding a candle of beauty their own. Gnarly routes of a limb seem to point to the cracked up and shriveled ways in which character has bore holes right into the frame.
We don't escape the living without a few scars to show for it, but oh the beauty it makes of us!
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