She holds perfection in her face.
Proportioned in the classic sense,
her face drew looks from passing gents.
Her lips were full. She would not fain
refuse judicious cherry stain.
Her cheekbones painted, dusted red.
Synthetic color, bottle bred.
Her eyebrows arch in perfect lines,
but those are not innate designs.
Her eyelids tinted palest rose.
Her lashes frame the hue she chose.
Her skin is flawless, native silk.
Its tone is creamy, mild as milk.
No blemish, line, or errant spot
shall bring this beauty rare to rot.
Her glamour, rich, refined, we hail,
yet underneath this gilded veil,
there lies a dying woman, aged,
her beauty withered, broken, caged.
The tide of youth, it quickly ebbs.
Her dead flesh draped with spider webs.
She lived for beauty, every breath
was spent and thus prolonged her death.
When veil's removed, our vision warps.
Carrion, mutton, carcass, corpse.
She hides her dying face and soul
beneath a mask a world from whole.
Thomas wasn’t much of a conversationalist. He didn’t much like people, and they didn