She sits on a wrinkled stool afront a scratched mirror, stirring admix
Lather to visage affixes
Wetting bristles circling China soapdish
Blue and white spilled ink Irish sky miniature pictures of oriental temples, where stricture-bound monks, enrolled since infancy by orphandom, live structured lives away from potential criminal elements, awaiting happy endings, lending alms and begging them from those plentiful
Face whitens pale paste white when she dies lying, slept by murderous lullabies
Waxen apple carapace shine to her face
Like porcelain glaze, glass grapes would not break in her mouth
Gaze arresting
Latest crazes grace her kissing gears
Takes years off
Argent unguent applied targets aging, pungent unlidded
All rage out foreign massaged into skin’s pores, poor skin flooded scented oils
Bottled scents, essences inessential oil
Smooth out wrinkled skin’s many crenellations
Alchemisland 
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