My body is a crumbling temple,
It does not look it from the outside,
Not when I paint its exterior in brightly colored hues,
Or when I cover my skin in golden bangles and decorative dangles.
Rarely do the monuments from centuries before now
Look as old as I feel anyhow.
My body is a crumbling temple,
I will worship it all the same.
Carefully constructing every move I make,
In an effort to minimize the damage that has begun in its foundations.
My body is a crumbling temple,
Even if it does not look like it.
My body is a crumbling temple,
And despite all attempts to fix it up
I cannot choose where to begin.
Perhaps I shall start with painting the exterior with flowers and art
Or simply tear out the bones and restart.
Perhaps this body that I inhabit
Is perfect, despite its crumbling habit.
My body is a crumbling temple,
It is meant to last me eighty years
Though, I might be lucky to get half that.
I will stand,
Or perhaps lean against my cane
Or maybe I should sit,
As I watch the years pass by;
Happy with the beauty that is my crumbling temple.
For just because it crumbles and breaks into pieces
Does not mean it is worth less than it was before.
I will love the body that I have been given,
And learn to treat it well.
Through every staggering stronghold and tower
My crumbling temple will continue to serve me well.