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The Price of Perfection
March 12, 2014
Eyes frothed over,
Her blue glaze that in itself
Was caged in ice.
Wispy blonde locks
Framed her face forever.
Timeless rosy cheeks
Were always stained pale.
Flawless lips, red with vitality
Were frozen nonetheless.
Beautiful, lacy blue velvet:
The only dress she owned.
Ignorant to the world,
She lay still as death
In her lonely white box
With the lid propped open.
When the door shuts,
The hinges rust and bend,
The box browns and warps,
And she crumbles slowly,
Falling into her own decay.
© Malorie M., Walkersville, MD
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