The Myth Of Beauty... It's the ugly truth.

So where is the peace?
She is not dead, nor does she sleep
She has awakened from the dream of life
And lost in stormy visions of strife
In a mad trance, she will strike with her ghostly knife
As vulnerable nothingness, she will decay
Like a corpse in a barrel, no fear or grief
She convulses and is consumed by the day,
Her hope is as cold as worms in our living clay.

She has soared over the shadow of night
Envy and callousness, hate and pain,
That unrest that men find strange delight,
Can both touch them and torture them again and again,
From the pandemic world of stains,
Now she is secure, and can never mourn
A heart so cold, her head so gray in vain;
Once her spirit ceases to burn
Her sparkling ashes load into an inconspicuous urn.

The Myth Of Beauty... It's the ugly truth.

MoonlightLover

Joined October 2010

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  • Artwork Comments 35

Artist's Description

The Myth Of Beauty… It’s the ugly truth.

Artwork Comments

  • Hugh Fathers
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  • MoonlightLover
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