Shanks's Pony

It's Monday. How could I not?

On Looking

I am a badly-peeled grape of girl,
having lost my good face at twenty-one.
I lived, briefly, as a smooth-skin lustre pearl,
then my flirtation with beauty was done.
The face that replaced it I choose to forget,
except it appears the choice is not mine;
I see it in every reflected glance yet,
the veiled pity eyes that cloud me unblind.
But distorted as any fairground mirror,
truth lies like a gypsy fortune teller
searching pockets to see the future clearer:
people look not at, but in. So do tell her,
the world is not as cruel as we can be;
be kinder to what mirrors what you see.