They paint their eyes;
And lips and nails
With a god called cosmetics,
And thereby look “GOOD”
In borrowed beauty.
And along the road,
With stagnant beauty,
They move with informed enemies.
The ghosts whose beauty fades in time.
Like the owls’, their fingers are tall
And tatty to complement their death.

Check their handbags and see
What they will never forget to carry.
The mirrors that at all times
Keep reminding themselves of the beauty
That is not theirs-
And the perfumes and combs,
For improving their death.

Look at how they pile themselves
In...