Beauty parade
She's in no condition to be marketing youth,
beautiful as she may be.
Age has caught up to this queen,
and it seeps through her
meticulously touched up image.
It stands as an indication that there truly is
no escape.
The visage cured by make-up invites and then
devours.
The false image of everlasting beauty,
sold to the stiff-faced target audience,
is excellently malicious.
She becomes a servant to the
increasingly aggressive, demanding,
and torturous beast of beauty.
Passively, she curves her lips to rendezvous
with her cheeks.
To the world she reveals her recycled
emotion, a feigned smile.
On paper she calls desperately,
but is not heard.
She is ogled to insanity,
and her absurdities are passed on to
other aspiring
beauties.
None of whom recognize
the defeat in her eyes that
reaches down the furthest
channels of sentimentality,
grabbing consciousness
by the collar and shaking
it vigorously.
“Pay attention, this is what
they turn you into,” she dictates, but
is not heard.
If becoming an aging beauty
on the cover of a magazine
is the highest position
a woman can hope to hold,
then there is no hope.
The beast has won.
The fighting is done.
And a slave to the beast,
all beauties will be.