When will this bloke ever grow up?

When I look into the mirror

My receding hairline,

Tufts of grey above my side-burns,

Crow’s feet around my lazy eyes,

Dark circles darkening in the broad daylight,

My slightly peppered, graying goatee, 

And the hardening of lines along the nose,

Suddenly stare back at me, 

As though mocking at the thoughts in my head.

When I look into the mirror

My bespectacled vision,

Clouded with heavy puffs of my sighs,  

As though cataract has descended early,

My knotted knuckles and twisted fingers, 

Aching bones, arthritic joints,  

And twingeing knees, crackling under my weight,  

Suddenly stare back at me, 

As though mocking at the thoughts in my head.

When I look into the mirror

My puffy face and baked skin,

Turning brown in the oven of time,

My midriff, ever expanding like population,      

Oodles of flesh gathered at all the wrong places,

Like lumpy pouches of poverty,  

My gout-ridden ankles and swollen feet,

Suddenly stare back at me, 

As though mocking at the thoughts in my head.

When I look into the mirror

I find youth has come and gone,

Without stopping at my door,

Like a postman in a hurry,

Rushing off to deliver parcels and letters, elsewhere,

Leaving behind a stamp of age,

As strong as my fate-lines,

Etched out in my palms,

I refused to open up.   

Now every time

I look into the mirror

An old man looks at me,  

And steps back,

Reflectively,

His spectacles slightly askew on his nose,

Sniggering at the shadows inside my head,

Wondering,

When will this 'bloke' ever grow up?