The face concealed, adorned with grace,
flowers dense, like forms impressed.
What’s real, what’s false, erased in space,
the soul behind the shine suppressed.
The world demands a flawless guise,
no blemish mars its lofty beauty.
Yet truth, in shadows where it lies,
remains unseen, a silent duty.
How swiftly blossoms fade away,
their gleam dissolves, their colors pale.
Then bare skin shows, so raw, so true,
unbound by masks that others veil.
