Sonnet 419

Like a painted madam clutching trickling sand
So does your beauty’s desperation show,
That grimaced gargoyle of a face once grand,
Long ravaged by club smoke and cheap Bordeaux.
Cosmetic primers there of lines disguise
What surgeons’ steel could never quite defeat;
Those battle scars that erst did age belie,
Once scrived in blood, now plied with rouge complete.
What truth remains in that mendacious mirror
Where dreams of triumphs past lay glazed by time;
You raise your brow to make that sculpture lear
And sadly so now mock your out worn prime.
What of those many swains your mien did rule…
That Queen of Hearts, now but a jester’s fool.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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