Beneath the beautiful

so, she'd have poured her grief in the urn

wept and wept over fallen autumn leaves

her beauty still surpassed that of flowers

her anguish swirled with a peevish wind as one

in the field where she stands are ghosts

neither courage nor virtue could spruce her clean

beneath that beautiful skin is a cold tremor

how should she crawl back to the membrane?

and into the walls bedecked with fine mirrors

when she's withering away in a dry season