The beauty painter stares at the face
Circling every ugly ruined spot
Which her fingers must distil
Under oil and colour.
Like the exterior artist
The costumier looks at the skin
And asks questions to carve the shape
Of that woman in her prime
Who refuses that age defeats her
Else the beauty lines will fade.
So the eyes protect the brows
In their architecture and design
Leaving the observer confused
As to if art were flawless perfection.