Reflections on the outward image of things.

Untitled Poem

A painted wall, a tiled floor, a pair of blackened boots,
A tight-laid bed, a polished plate, black hair with light blond roots.
The paint on walls will save the wood that under them must lie
But dye in hair has little use except to please the eye.
Is there a line between these two, a boundary we can pick
That separates chapped lip protection from bright red lip stick?