This elegy has no
breath for the plump lips.
For no one cares to write
a fabricated letter, something like:
Dearest Darkest Hole in the Night,
Butter her breast up with all your
secrets, as if decomposition scores
surgical enhancement, soil to the skin,
making her younger and youthful again.
There, prickled by thin needles
of legs, from creepy little beetles
on beds of satin, silk, cotton,
the finest spas for the rotten.
Youthful lies, as she dies, dies
dies, each day while she tries
to beat the dance with decay
hiding in longevity’s yesterday.
Time,
won’t be tricked by false prime.
She can’t cover in eternal creams,
and pamper death with regimes.
Even if she spots the dots of
age on her, and boycotts
the thought of loss with laser,
to mask the corpse that betrays her.
She’ll still find herself in a box:
the coffin of worthless botox.
For there is no hope in Beauty,
when plump lips suffocate on expired duty.
