Beauty From Ashes

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Don’t ask me to knit and crochet my way
into dessicated silence, now
my thatch is ashen grey.

I won’t sink into mouldy age,
authority repudiated by my years,
influence crinkled as old papers.

I won’t forget my pungency over
powered his serviette-folded appetite,
with piles of used nappies.

I won’t put a pencil between my shrinking teeth
to practice the thunder of man’s frequency,
I should not shout to be heard.

I won’t be a predator, pimped travesty,
solitary in stalk and ambush, still
thirsty with before the flood desire.

I will make my own beauty
brain blooming colour now
my thatch is ashen grey.