Wilted flower,* ageless in
A time of *frailty, never wishing
For her glow to fade, but
Every flower wilts over time.
She was weak in sympathy
Seeing everyone though her
Outer shell was, of ill taste,
Souring there eyes.
So those of younger skin she
Spat upon in hated gestures,
Until she could not see beauty,
Only those having what had
Faded upon her over time.
She was a seamstress of cloth,
Fashion was in her eyes, beauty
For beauty now all was bland
As her image tainted, She was
Upon a plan.
She would take beauty from those
Unworthy souls, who abused the
Gift for it should be collected,
Harvested, so began her crime.
The first was a nose, cut off still
Breathing jagged edges ruined.
She slashed upon beauty as stillness
Settled in there eyes. Like a canvass
Now ruined, ugly in her sight,
Discarded in to the river the fishes
Feasting upon her crime.
She harvested, parts each dead
for moments but stillness brought
precision, each flawless gem, with
Precise loops each part fell in to place.
She only needed one more ,the lips
So delicate, so fragile. She carved
So many kisses from the bodies,
But never the correct, impatient
She became, enraged with failures.
Her moments of rage, became news.
"The patch work doll"
"The seamstress of beauty"
She liked this name for beauty
Was a puzzle that she stitched
Together to hide the ugly inside.
Then upon those fated moments,
"Excuse me do you know the"
Her mind forgot to listen, transfixed
Upon those ruby gems, Yes ill
Show you the way.
"Thank you mam"
Ill fated beauty, single breathes to
Take. These where her jewels of
Her crown as each most delicately
Removed, stored so not to break.
The patchwork was finished, hideous
Monstrosity of flesh dead, but she
Revelled upon her creation. Missing
The point that she was only faded inside.
She wore this mask, the seamstress of
Beauty now wore the blood of others
Upon her face, each was a life taken
For this moment in the mirror, she
Looked upon in happiness, in joy
Of others pain, but the moment faded.
All she saw was others, her beauty hidden
Upon the stiches of others face, she
Couldn't see herself only the faces of
Each life she did take. The lips moved
Spoken words upon this face, you want
This beauty take it cut it with the knife.
She cut upon this mask, deep cuts
Upon her own self, the mask fell
To the floor, spare parts of meat.
She cut around, bleeding down
Kissing the floor as it fell. Till she
Stood there, her skin, meat upon
The floor.
Those final moments the seamstress
Saw she was beautiful, that it was
Underneath that was what she had
Missed, so much beauty spilled for
What, as she ran screaming towards
The window.
Like a mirror shattering shards
Showing her a reflection of the beauty
She had become, she was the seamstress
Of many faces but know only one
Face hits upon the unforgiving ground.
Beauty in pieces...
