In shadows' depths, where whispers roam,
A tale of Belle, within her home.
She'd weave with words, a silken spite,
Against her essence, in the night's light.
Her visage, a canvas flawed and strange,
A mirror cracked, an image deranged.
Her form, a maze of branches wide,
No soul dares linger by her side.
Her laughter, a wailing ghost's lament,
A melody too sharp, too crescent-bent.
Her limbs, like ancient oaks entwined,
In shadows lost, beauty declined.
Narcissus peers into his stream,
Distorted figures haunt his dream.
Aphrodite, plump and fair,
Yet goddesses too bear despair.
Her skin, a map of deserts vast,
A barren landscape, love amassed.
Her breasts, twin peaks in frozen cold,
No warmth to thaw, no tales unfold.
In scripts of secrecy, words unfurl,
Echoes unspoken, a silent whirl.
Her heart, a chasm deep and dim,
No solace found, no love within.
Yet in her gaze, the truth she'd miss,
Her own reflection, a cruel abyss.
Narcissus and Aphrodite blend,
In beauty's dance, flaws transcend.
In mirrors' realm, where truths reside,
A fractured image, fears implied.
Belle’s cruel words, like poisoned art,
Reflect her own unkindly heart.
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