Poetry About Mustaches

In wax combed before the mirror, mustaches finds a visible shape. Grey whiskers above a patient smile carries what ordinary speech leaves unfinished. Between a child drawing one on a photograph and barber scissors clicking at the lip, the heart learns to listen. A small strip of hair can carry fashion, humor, age, and pride, though the day rarely says so aloud. By night, an old portrait keeping its serious curl becomes a promise rather than an ending.

Grey whiskers above a patient smile enters the poem first. Mustaches follows, neither symbol nor explanation, but weather. Barber scissors clicking at the lip keeps the difficult measure. We stand near wax combed before the mirror and let certainty loosen. A small strip of hair can carry fashion, humor, age, and pride. An old portrait keeping its serious curl remains after the room grows quiet.

Someone remembers a child drawing one on a photograph. Someone else names wax combed before the mirror and means an entire life. Mustaches moves between them with patient hands. Grey whiskers above a patient smile refuses to become only background. A small strip of hair can carry fashion, humor, age, and pride. At last, an old portrait keeping its serious curl gives the silence somewhere to rest.