‘Is this the only crown I’ll ever wear?’
This circlet forged by fingers so unclean,
A vapid prize for every Beauty Queen:
This title, filled with promise and despair.
Though she was blessed with beauty (and great hair)
There comes, with this, a curse that’s seldom seen.
Permitted just to pout and primp and preen;
Her words and thoughts were nothing but hot air.
As every rose in bloom will surely fade,
She too will fade, like sun worn tapestries.
For time’s an inescapable parade,
The only way to fool it is to flee.
With fingers crossed, she jumped into the sea:
A beauty, now, is all she’ll ever be.