Where is beauty to be found?
Is it truly in the beholder’s
eye?
Does it really only run skin
deep?
Can it be rescued from yet
another cliché
Or broadened still from
horizon to horizon?
Is it merely a pregnant
pause?
A moment of quiet reflection
in
An otherwise horrid, insidious
day?
Can it soothe the beast?
Calm the Storm?
Or is it the actual storm
itself
Sequestered in a lace-trimmed
veil,
Stalking tree-lined streets
of gold
To rest beneath my
windowsill?
Or is it you, my sweetest
one?
Are you my beauty, draped with
grace?
Would darkness fill me were
your face
Not burned into my memory?
I could not,
Would not want to know.
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