Porcelain Mask

She stares into the mirror
with the perfect face she's painted.

Every stroke makes clearer
the face that her brush has painted.

Her porcelain mask she changes.
Beautiful, serene, untainted.

And carefully arranges
the features she wants sainted.

She adds a little rouge on her cheeks
to warm up the cold ceramic.

A blotter prevents wear from leaks.
Tears would ruin the panoramic.

Beneath the mask the woman weeps.
Never to be loved as herself.

Her soul inside her body sleeps.
Her heart lays upon her shelf.

To be what others told her to
and what she believes she needs.

Her soul lays wasted, exhausted, and through.
It has expired from her deeds.

So now she sits and paints her mask.
For there is nothing else to do.

Forever she'll be at this task.
No one would have her who knew.