She stands
judged
and torn down.
Her years betraying
a youthful dream
and the acceptance
of the rest. She
is more than nothing and
less than anything
as the hands shift
like clockwork and shed
the worth of an object.
Not even valuable
as a thing. She
existed to be young
and beautiful
by the rule of
judges, juries and executioners.
Suffers, she stands
closing curtains of lace
which the light blares through. Blemished
canyons once were taut
on lands meant for cultivation.
Nothing grows on rocky cliffs
as longing dies on jagged features
of an object betrayed
by every nursing year and
the aches and pangs of
hunger. To be a young thing
of measurable value. A body
tight and supple
young and mature
petite and ample
all without a flaw or contradiction
is upon a pedestal
the standard of
beauty, of
value, and the truth
about an object?
It's worthless
when it's useless.