Fade..

Three phases of allotted time,
Raw, Ripe and Rotting.
The Spirit's pilgrimage called Life,
Ever constantly gyrating.
For every hurdle that one leaps above,
A scar upon the skin,
A scar such only you can see,
With roots that reach within.
A final glance into the mirror,
A stranger you will find,
A strength you never knew you had,
Refined, transitioned Mind.
Nothing ever changes the way We do,
To now seeing, from once blind.
Since the black, it faded off to gray,
And the rest we left behind.