Things do get old.
They dry up and fold.
Decrepit dermis.
Decay and mold.

Climate of sin.
On succulent skin.
Will crinkle and crack.
Ooze from within.

Still is the bone.
Not written in stone.
Moving like marrow.
There to atone.

Come not the end.
This body, this friend.
Nurture its nature.
And live on the mend.