In the garden of faces, she blooms,
a daffodil amidst roses,
petals unfurling in the morning sun,
a delicate facade, a painted perfection.
Her smile, a symphony of deceit,
a dance of light on polished surface,
beckoning bees to her nectared lips,
while beneath, thorns lie in wait.
Each word she utters, a whispered breeze,
fragrant with falsehoods and pretense,
while her eyes mirror the azure sky,
reflecting only the clouds she wishes to show.
She is a masterpiece of illusion,
crafted with care, each detail honed,
but beneath the surface, her roots run shallow,
her beauty a fleeting mirage.
So admire her from afar,
but do not be deceived by her charm,
for she is but a daffodil,
bright and lovely, yet shallow at heart.