Twelve o’clock; I’ve already had so much fun - ran
down singing to the basement for more boxes, the
first lot are mysteriously gone, and then explaining
reality TV ‘how the rest of the world lives’ to a work
mate - my joyous discovery, different from cooped
up us in an office; pageant brides dream wedding
Dresses; plastic surgery rectified for narcissist-lips
caught in a perpetual pout; crooned my way softly
through leave authorisation - ran out into sunshine
for more boxes; - my surreal sibling in the magical
realm of clickety-clack poetic expression still to be
sent my poem today - when I’m stopped, giddy in
My tracks, by Katie Piper’s tale of acid thrown into
her face; she’s no beauty addict, a victim restored
by skin transplants, but she interviews beautifully -
even undergoes procedures to support others; my
heart aches for the lovely girl whose inner beauty
fills viewers with sweetest incense conferring
absolution of sin - it is how she spreads her inner
strength - with her light shining from within
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