you  
will never use it
  
you will not be bent over
like some question mark  
whose answer others beg to know
  
you thought beauty could perish  
like a rose wilted, losing its blood petals  
not a soul hearing or seeing them fall to the ground  
long ago averting their eyes to other blossoms
or gems ground fine, forgiving and forgetting
they were once coal, and the flower would return
for other eyes, if not for yours  

you  
chose the cold blade and the warm bath  
while you were still statuesque, *****
the object of envy and awe  
not a wrinkle on your brow
a gray hair on your mane  

when they find you,  
I hope your eyes are closed  
your tongue in your mouth

though the water will be cold  
and clouded with pink, it
will whirl down the drain, effortlessly
with the last scant memory of you  
who chose an exquisite moment of illusive
splendor, over the blessed cane of age