The Porcelain Necrosis
A thick porcelain shroud in a diamond vial,
Dabbing conceals the bruised moon beneath each socket,
A fine white mask stifles the shine,
Carving canyons to mimic where the pulse has retreated,
Brushing of a counterfeit fever upon the apples of the cheek,
Before a stroke of stardust illuminates the stifle,
Sweeping the lids with the velvet,
Ink the margins of gaze with a raven’s sharp intent,
Until the final petal of crimson seals the kiss,
The mirror reflects the tragedy of gravity claiming its heavy prize,
And beauty really is pain.
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