What is beauty if not a gift divine,
Given by gods to bless the mortal few?
But as a garment that will wear with time,
That magic fabric still will not renew;
And yet what woman would not wear the gown
Of gilded grace that splendor can bestow,
So set to dress for but the here and now,
To flit and flirt amidst life’s greatest show…
Yet like fine dress of matchless thread there spun
No mortal weave transcends the bounds of fate,
From regal robe to dingy dowd undone —
All dims with time, save hues on heaven’s gate;
Sweet bounty granted yet what price there paid,
Cruel anguish suffered when the cachet fades.
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.