Shall I still caress

him, stroking through his thin hair?


Will it make him bald?

The Spartan women,

sitting on the salty shore --


are combing their hair.

the thought of you whispers to me
in my lonesome moments
your stride glides swiftly to me
eyes of earthly-tinged emeralds
fire-soaked whiskers brush upon me
and the slightest rosy sweetness
leaves me yearning for you
all
over
again

If only it was
like a hair of you,
like a glimpse of you
in your mirror!
Like the all round one
perfect sway
nets the ultimate decimal of pi!

Dear baby,

I wondered if the strands of your hair would be black or brown,

How when your locks fell out they would be scattered upon the ground like confetti,

How I wish I knew,

If your hair would be curly or straight,

I wish I knew if it was soft, delicate and scented of you.

A hiss of the moon tucking
into just a pair of lock
let alone in pavilion-tresses
on the back of one's eternal silence.
Giving autumn shadows
to seven skies' azure.
What now the stars are gone
followed in their countless galore!

Eyes of the buds ope
dreaming nightingale
hops up to the morning rose  
singing in what a balmy fold.

I realised with momentary surprise
  that my mirror was stuck back
  in 1985
back when I knew I knew how to smile
  and believed in my peculiar sense of style
back when my lower back was furthest from my thoughts
  and I thought my hair was the peak of good looks.

My now flipped face frowned at the trick of time
and at my lesser hair’s climb
  down,
bringing myself back to my present face
  and to continue with my routine head shave.