All beautiful things die,
And all dying things are beautiful.
I never saw it, but they always said my face was quite lovely:
They said my lips were the color of roses.
I’m no fool- roses, even the most beautiful, wither and die.
They said my skin was white as snow.
I’m no fool- snow, even the whitest, melts into a dull grey puddle.
They said my eyes were piercing as the bright blue sky.
I’m no fool- the sky, even the brightest blue, turns dark each and every night.
They said my freckles were like grains of sand in a hidden paradise.
I’m no fool- a single grain of sand, even the prettiest grain, is worthless.
They said I was beautiful.
I’m no fool- all dying things are beautiful.