Brush A Blush* Poem by Ian Bowen

I love
women who wear make-up; .
it shows they have pride
as they try to hide
the blemishes
of a gravity that tugs
and pulls at the relaxed muscles
of fast fading smiles.
Tired eyes beg black
as lashes fail to curl, above
the small cracks
around once kissable lips

The mirror who once told her
she was the fairest in the land
now reflects lies for a living.

But in the experienced movements
of time, she can
brush a blush,
cream a seam,
twirl a curl...

and tempt me once again.