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The mirror

The grace in the glass
Is a mere spectacle
Of a man’s art and taste for illusion
For the pretty young fool flips and flounders
Dancing gingerly to avoid the shards.
But violent eyes stare back at the end of the day
When the purity leaves scars
and the woman in black now
Has lost her drumbeat to the cards
When she needs more
She thrives
She refuses to stop now
A prisoner of a gaze
Who is the fairest of them all
And who will stand when beauty falls
Engrossed she is
By desier of glory of Helen
She has reached unearthly limmits
Herself a prisoner to her own spell of mystique
She sharpens the blade and starts to chop
Chop off thy blemishes
Chop off thy flaws
And chop men’s heart
Who fail to see past Aphrodite’s wall.



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