Oct 302013
The beautiful ones, being by beauty besotted,
Flatter none, as they care for none,
A crew so graceful and cosseted,
Grown cruel in the solitude of their own perfection.

They know as few can know that beauty must be forged:
Long they toil with weighted wheel 
And mirror grim and shortened breath
Until their stride is that of a gazelle at morn,
Their shoulders red and set with a pride of steel,
The youngness of their faces a defeat for death.
They leap above the boards without burden or care
--A long waver glowing mysterious in mid-air--
Beauty flowing between the seen and the unseen.

Time will melt their beautiful bodies like wax
Gone molten in the sun, shedding a sheerest sheen,
A golden waver above the grim surfaces of fact.

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