Neck

And severed his grey head from his poor neck,
A paltry neck, a scrawny, wrinkled thing,
With sinews like old, frayed pieces of string
And mottled skin, each cautionary speck
Either a mole triumphant or a fleck
That demonstrated time is hurrying
Towards a bruised demise. Pauper or king,
We're all aimed at the same disturbing wreck.

Dress her tonight in taffeta and lace,
Gracing her features most appealingly;
Beg her pardon and carry her to me.
Below his chin, beneath the ravaged face,
She sees, or thinks she sees, appalling space,
Where nothing has been left for her to see.