Beauty is perfection

be it shallow or heart-felt

naturally awarded to a selection

the remainder fail to be acknowledged

Atop the lakes float pure white swans

admiration their own need

whilst heavy hearts, my own does sink

becoming plainer than pond weed

So sit upon your sun-kissed throne

no more than a stick thin branch

willow, why do you weep so?

we knew from the start you stood no chance

I'll starve myself of my own needs

be it necessary to become-

unlike the others, we grow numb

lost beneath their forgeries

Yet a single soul, at once he sees

if plain is asked, then plain I'll be

treasured unlike the perfect rose

no longer classed a rarity