She saw a Venus in her table mirror,
mirror that reflects images as they are,
or so close to their original form,
though a replica,
she believed in what her lovers said,
the enthusiasts of her breasts
that did shield her heart often hurt,
that she is a Venus where Sun rises.
She tossed her head in pride
and her hair untamed
fell her dear Attic vase,
was swept off.
Its red red rose, her darling red rose, she touched in the morning,
watered and whispered her secrets to,
the secrets of her broken heart,
flew off, broke its wings, shivered and soon lay dead.
Then she peeped into her mirror to see her disheveled hair,
wrinkled face, sunken eyes, hanging, worn out breasts, and her
bloated belly; the lies her lovers told her rang in her ears,
and she let her mouth freely pour out all that stench
she had smelt years to please those that came to her
seeking her aging body.
Image source: Pixabay