La Belle Fille

Enchanting orbs; Everlasting brights.
Tangled hair; Looks of sight.
The look of perfection and sense of desire,
Slur of words that makes one despise her.
Not a tear is shed,
To uncurl a perfect eyelash.
Her lips only open,
to vomit her lies.

Yet never as impecable,
when her face washes away,
and down goes her gaurd; right down the drain,
Once again she is brought down to her knees.
Living a lie; Living only to please.
She's starting to tire; showing her frail eyes.
This facade of perfection,
her life of deep despise.
The tale of a swan,
with a raven deep inside.