You are white black and beautiful.
Nothing else but a hologram.
It is the veil over your soul.
Masterpieces by a perfect hand.
Pretty and yours alone to mind.

Beauty is action and action brings fashion.
Yet you look in the mirror and still cry.
Skin, curves and curls are abstractions.
Looks are pidgin languages of the eyes.
They blink when they judge.
Each count falsifies precision.
They eat till your heart is obese.
Then comes fantasies and confusions.
Then the quest for a perfect look.
Then submission to those that blink.
Whose fingers can never be shrinked.
A painter would transform harmlessly.
But a sculptor always tell a painful lie.

You are a sex of perfect choice.
Not by you, but for you.
Visage with esteemed features.
So no man can boast your potter.
And what about your gifts and talents?
The wand that will lionise a Lilliputian.

Making a wretch into an alchemist.
For beauty is best painted than carved.
Her glorious spectra are illusive variations.
Our endless speculations illuminates her soul.
Better be obsessed with your originality;
Than languish in hideous reality of your fantasy.