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.

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