Sonnet 153

She spurns the hand of man, yet feels scorned,
Displays her cleavage, yet disdains a look;
Swears she is made of truth, yet paints adorn
Her visage like swank cover of a book.
The woman needs at once a larger mirror,
One that purviews perhaps both heart and soul,
A glass most fair, reflecting all that’s clear,
Though truth of course, is not quite near the goal.
Oh, wardress foul, yes mizz hypocrisy!
What victim tears besmirch mascara now;
How many ways to lose virginity,
And yet retain it for some sacred vow?
Yes, once a time your honeyed guise seemed sweet,
But subject to bright sun, it now does reek.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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