Old Age

They washed away the dirt from off your face
like mother used to
back when you were small.
The details of your face
becoming clearer,
in a light that once shone on it.
It’s funny,
yes, something you might once
have laughed at,
that a painter in your life
with such skill,
is forgotten
but you are not.
Your life is gone
but your face
preserved
and looked upon
by the children of your children's
children's children
in an age that would have stunned you.
They speak gibberish,
and pass you round
to gaze at this immortal,
stuck in an age long gone.