The Price of Gloss

 

Oh, sisters, hear the secret hum,

From where the painted whispers come.

Not just a sound, a phantom haze,

That cloaks your nights and gilds your days.

It’s the Lips, you see, a cruel, sweet lie,

That promise heaven in a bought-out sky.

They gleam like pearls, or poison bright,

Reflecting back your fading light.

They shape the words that spin the spell,

Of what you lack, and what to sell.

"Be beautiful," they hiss and sigh,

"And life's true worth will pass you by

Unless you wear this perfect skin,

Or welcome what we bring within."

And then, the Goods! Oh, how they shine!

Each plastic dream, a false design.

A thousand trinkets, soft and deep,

While genuine longings fall asleep.

A serum for the aging face,

A dress to find your fleeting place.

They pile them high, a dazzling heap,

While your true spirit starts to weep.

But listen closer, through the drone,

To whispers on a different tone:

"Unlock your power! Monetize!

Let every weakness be your prize!"

The Lips now preach of gutter gold,

A blueprint for your soul unsold.

"Your voice, your beauty, every grace,

Convert to profit, find your place!"

They offer tips, a cruel design,

To sell your essence, make it mine.

Your pain a product, grief a trend,

A currency that knows no end.

The betrayal dawns, a silent frost,

On all the essence you have lost.

That perfect smile, a shallow show,

Beneath the gleam, the shadows grow.

The promises, like glitter, fall,

Leaving behind an empty hall.

The "beauty" bought, a hollow shell,

A self unmade, a silent hell.

I watch you dance, a marionette,

To tunes the grinning merchants set.

Your minds, your hearts, a fertile field,

Where manufactured wants are sealed.

The Lips still move, a phantom grace,

But now I see their vacant face.

The Goods surround, a silent mound,

On graves of worth, by false dreams crowned.

Wake up, dear sisters, from the trance,

Beyond the market's fleeting dance.

For what is pure, and what is true,

Can never be bought or sold to you.

Shatter the mirrors, peel the gloss,

And count the spirit's quiet cost.

Then let your own true voices rise,

Beneath authentic, dawning skies.

And know that wisdom, freely sought,

Is worth more than a soul half-bought.