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Beauty

  • Joanne Benedetto
  • Dec 24, 2025
  • 1 min read

Her beauty must be managed with a glove

For beauty is a thing she’s guilty of

Blooming without a mirror in her hand

Something the rose can never understand

Whose beauty shares a garden with the thorn

For truly its purity will be torn

Since it is prone to the ethereal

As she is prone to the ephemeral.

 
 
 

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