Mirror

Alone she stands before the painted glass
to scrutinize her long-neglected frame.
Her hands along the countless lines do pass;
she yearns a figure less imbrued with shame.
"Is this the fate of womankind?" she cried.
"This fallen temple, scarred of children born?"
Intently searching sunken curves, she tried
to find a purer beauty in this form.
The sacred womb, the deepest roots of life,
are hid beneath her sinking abdomen;
abundant breasts are curving low and rife
with pleasures now traduced by common men.
     And yet with patience, in deep reflection,
     she finds her goddess; inner perfection.

This is a revision of Mirror .  When working on it, I felt the meaning changed a bit, so assigned it a new title.