The Mask

 
Streaming mascara and a crumbling porcelain demeanor,
Runs from her empty eyes, caressing her listless lips
Slowly stripping her soulless mind.
Her beauty, her shallow trophy, once stood tall,
But now slowly crumbles from its colossal behemoth,
The tragic but inevitable metamorphosis
For a lingering soul, a shattered self.

No longer does her heart beat,
Her blood is stationary and her body lifeless.
Racing pulses and feverish flushing are her past,
No longer do they exist for her.
She is drained, consumed, empty.

The melancholic consumption of her earlier allure leaves her broken,
Tiny pieces of her former self suffer silently on the floor that she once danced upon,
Never to be fixed, or saved,
An unnecessary, unimportant mess to be veiled under a slimy mask of deceit.
Her weathered fingers graze over the conceited potions and tools of beauty,
And with each stroke, pluck and brush she once again plays the beauty she once held,
An award-winning performance,
The most beautiful of lies.