The Idea-smithy

Skin powdered to smooth perfection
Lipstick patted dry to a subtle, near non-erasable hue
Eyes smoky and heavy-lidded
Colours muted enough to be classy

The voice pitched a tad above inaudible, just below husky
And her movements just the right side of languid,
Never erring into lethargic,
Shying clear of boistrous

And yet, through the night
She is, as a beacon
Moths or fireflies perhaps,
Flocking to her banked flames

Later, much later, early in the a.m.
She washes her face
Patting it gently dry as the beauty manuals advocate
But the shining in her eyes stays until she shuts her eyes

Gilt may turn to gold and back,
But tears and pearls can never be changed.