Miracles Poem by Mahathi Mydavolu

An aging mind is like a ripened fruit.
There're buzzing flies around; no butterflies.
When just a bud she vied for leering eyes
that loud exclaimed and praised her petals cute.
She's then a cynosure, the aesthetes' moot.
When in late bloom, it's truth versus the lies
that plays an endless game of rolling dice.
Then start the petals wilt and charms dilute.

Now lingering on brittle pedicle
the berry is all eyes on waiting dust.
It's time all hope rejected her and will
to live deserted. It's time to stay still
and to the ordained kismet re-adjust.
It's dotage...when emerge no miracles.