A Withered Tree

A withered tree is very old;
it wasn’t born that way;
the flower’s petals unfold;
the beginning of decay.

Must we always scorn,
beauty that’s become,
with age, now adorned;
it’s beauty seems undone.

Wisdom comes from age;
true beauty, from inside;
recognized as a sage;
just before he dies.

Wisdom is always deep within;
a part of life’s purpose;
in the mind it must begin;
not on the body’s surface.

Real beauty isn’t seen;
that’s not what it's about;
if one’s mind is keen;
real beauty seems to shout.

Wisdom grows with age;
and beauty, much the same;
that our minds can't engage;
beauty's not to blame.

Wisdom and beauty, age like wine;
our judgement; clouded by vision;
only when aged, can we define;
then make our best decision.

Wisdom and beauty come from age;
for ignorance, we’re not to blame;
more wise as we turn life’s page;
and beauty is exactly the same.