They say a face is held in others’ eyes,
a fleeting praise that teaches glass its lies.
But vanity, that slow, reflective flame,
still whispers low until you lose your shame.
O child of dust, why court the gilded glass?
Why pose, and preen, and let the bright hours pass?
Each compliment’s a thread, each glance a knot;
you weave a shroud before you know your lot.
For beauty’s bloom is borrowed, brief, and thin;
the proudest petal wears a bruise within.
But vanity refuses all confession:
it builds an altar to your loveliness,
then asks for more – another hour, another pose
until the mirror cracks and the river knows.
Run while the looking glass is dark and dumb.
Do not stand near to see what may become.
Who lingers, counting smoke or weighing fire,
already hears the timber’s slow desire.
Who studies spark, and scar, and cinder’s drift
has stayed too long beneath seduction’s gift.
Better a bare and unadorned retreat
than thrones of powder on a burning sheet.
Better to turn when vanity first calls
than search through ash among the shattered walls.
So heed: the eye that holds your face may bless,
but hearts that hoard their image breed distress.
Unbehold your pride. Let the truer mirror be
the deed unseen, the quiet charity.
Turn back at once before the embers start:
the safest beauty is an uninflamed heart.
©TheVillageBoy.
(The Figure Man Who Loves Alphabets)
