Dark Paradise by Ben Hayward

Her face has worn with time.
She is now little more than a bust,
Fit for little more than showing hats,
But we worship her.
We’re told that she was beautiful,
That the whole world marveled upon her,
They tell us that we should aspire to be her,
To be like that empty stone face,
That one sat in the corner of the crypt,
The one where nobody goes,
If we are, we will be rewarded.
With what is never specified, only told.
As I run my hand across her face,
I feel the coarse limestone stick to my hand,
Trapped like protracted tears.
Her hands are little more than blunted claws,
And her once feminine shape lost to time.
The stories of her vary,
Women tell us that she was the vision of a mother,
Men tell us that she was some ancient whore.
All we can guarantee is that she existed,
Paralysed in time by some long forgotten sculptor.