To the Lucid Lover

The perfect woman dotes her frame, the border of her beauty true, and prides her fragile clarity, for filth can never filter through. Though I myself am not allured by women who are without tint, and frankly I can neither love nor give them any compliment. Don't think me harsh, those who apply; instead, entrust your ears to me. The film you bear belittles you: remove thy trite transparency! Your pale visage has no appeal, for inner beauty yields a shade, and smears its hue upon the face: a palette that you have betrayed. I much prefer my glass unique, with blurry views and colored cracks. I much prefer uncertainty, and that, madame, your mirror lacks. Abscond my dear from judgment's light; resurface when you can reflect the loyal sheet you were endowed and tinctures that the youths expect. Adieu to you young carnal pane; I much prefer my windows stained.