One does not paint lilies

One does not paint lilies, or one their beauty erases,
Smothered away into stiffness, a splendor conveyed
With which even King Solomon was never arrayed;
Yet we take the beauty of walls and put them on faces.
A certain pride in appearance, no critique I impart:
Errant hairs aligned or clipped, teeth whitened, skin scrubbed and smoothed,
Form-fitting threads; likewise, on occasion, how marvelous
The effects of shadowed eyes and ruby lips in thumping heart,
Twist-turned curls turning heads.

Yet still, in the wont of men, we exceed limits and sense
Piling on the foundation of beauty with powders and creams,
Superfluous weight cracking where should be laid frames and beams;
For no house needs two foundations, aside from mere pretense.
Yet press we on, architects of our own master plan,
And stultify life's vibrancy with death, solid and white
From mercury and lead; what means to beautify buries
Our image six lengths beneath illusion desired by man,
And poisons and blinds instead.

The social spotlight shines none near as bright as actor's venue.
Why veil the spots where e'en the Sun yielded to desire and kissed?
Quite more thrilling true blush than the rouge that cause it to be missed,
To bring away memory of soft cheek than residue.
Allow me a rag, some oil, to gently remove the veneer
And unmask concealed beauty that my heart has been longing.
I beg you, I plead: Shed the layers, look into my eyes
And in their reflection see, as I daub away your tears,
There is no need.