Hello my readers, I just wanted to quickly share a poem that I wrote a while back.
Up on the hills, with fragrant leaves round,
Seated there on her throne,
She who remains beauty’s epitome.
Her sycophants sing her praises all day long,
They coo and cluck over her all day, yet she pretends to shoo them away.
Food she eats not, water she drinks not,
Flattery, her only sustenance,
Flows through her veins and keeps her heart pounding,
If only you can call that a heart.
O, how pretty her courtiers, not a hair out of place and painted faces to match.
If only there was something to wipe off the painted expressions,
Worms crawl beneath.
They carry on with life aspiring to be flowerpots with no fragrance.
At least someone would notice.
And notice they did,
Equally handsome flowers, with a flair for conceit.
But the thing about flowers, they don’t last forever.
None can compare to her beauty,
It’s an expensive business, the Elixir.
For what is bought must be paid for.
The price, but a soul in exchange for beauty’s potion,
What is smooth as honey turns to bitter molasses.
But she would rather be pretty than plain.
Which fool said, “In the eye of the beholder, tis beauty.”
Lies, they croak, lies.
Beauty is but smeared faces and proper wardrobes,
A turned-up nose for an utterance of sweet,
Perfectly furnished claws for an affectionate tread,
And a hammer for a stronghold.