Portrait (Original Poetry)

eyes dark like coal,

without the dull sheen of harsh realities
sucking the vivacity out of oyur vision;
hair bright like gems,
glittering with an arrogant joy
as if preening (the epitome of vanity)
is a joy to behold,
an endless test of arrogance;
skin aged by weather
like tree bark,
beauty and grace and vitality,
all glued together poorly
to reveal a kitschy no-nonsense girl-woman
who grew up in the age
of austerity, who dared to hunger
for inspiration
behind the empty,
abandoned cottages,
ravaged by apocalyptic apathy,
covered in ivy wrapped around the foundation,
working its way to touch hands with moss
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