Who?

I recall when beauty was something
scrawled on a napkin.
I would ball it up in my fist,  
throw it away.

I was that young!

In those days, exuberance ran rampant.
The artist's gaze
took everything and nothing
fully in.

Any effort made
was immediately exclaimed upon
and determined good.

If there was sin, it was in not finding beauty.  
Then standards changed, demand  
and also supply.

And now I'm old.

For myself, I don't look to resurrection. 
I endow my skin
and everything else that I have
to you.

See?  I stand and hold open the door.
Won't you, please, come in?