if I indeed possess any,
has not gotten me far in this world.
My beauty receives the bare minimum,
discouraged from great tales of the same venue.
It seems to illicit creativity and passion.
My beauty is left anticipating commotion,
a proxy for something greater,
someone more beautiful.
My beauty must be quarantined.
Elusion is the best plan for preservation.
A cocoon is needed for time and burden.
My beauty has finally accepted its rightful key,
shutting all doors on bad weather.
Only winds of reckoning will touch my face.