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She was a girl when cake mascara was all the rage
Gardenia complexion, glistening lips with young age
As befits her now feeble, aching frame
Beauty was something she assumed was her claim

The toll of the years runs swift in her mind
Her brow was unwrinkled, for time had been kind
Beaus were plentiful, proposals too many to number
But now her days are spent deep in coma like slumber

Drool down her chin and bed-sores a plight
Asleep all day then wide awake at night
What is age, a number hidden beneath
Beauty is a white lily bound in the flesh of a wreath

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