Time has a way of reusing all faces:
the beggar on the corner identical to
the president on the quarter –
Time has a way of fading the greens
and blues, of bleeding the pigments and
dulling the hues, of mingling the faces
of friends, of lovers, of
that actor with the chin and
the steel-worker down the street;
time has a way of falling like rain and
washing heads clean, taking the faces and
sweat and tears and drizzling them away,
leaving all of us blank, bland, and
seeing ourselves in puddles.

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