Vanity – Auguste Toulmouche, 1890
Life has its odd little swings
Self doubt can bring your world crashing down
Caught in a fish-net of asylum madness
The dust of an inner alley can chill your bones …
Looking in the mirror at her image
She froze becoming a pillar of salt
That glassy face of paper mache
Stared at her, so frayed and mushroom white.
Funny how carnival mirrors made her laugh
Way back in nineteen forty-four,
Now her proud youthful perfection’s gone,
Those same mirrors are a horror in twenty-fourteen.
The roots of her problem – her vanity fair
That strokes her ego and drapes her heart,
Too much water has passed under the bridge
The crisp freshness of her youth was gone.
Fight she may the ravages of time
With pure white Dove, the soap of the stars,
But the wrinkles lay claim to her face …
View original post 223 more words