Ointment oozes

beneath dried up makeup,

hours old.

 

Sores, 

 

craters,

 

cysts,

 

countless stains

on what’s supposed to be

 

porcelain;

Or so I thought

maybe for once

 

I wont be

seen as

rusted gold.

 

I tell you this:

 

rusted gold,

a hidden treasure,

I stand beneath

XX Pro

or Valencia.

 

Maybe for

once

stained glass

will be revered

as Porcelain.

 

Countless imperfections

 

cysts,

 

craters,

 

sores,

 

embraced. 

Above old, crusted dust

beauty oozes