What is beauty?
Is it on a cloudless night, when every star
that has ever lived is in the sky,
in your and only your sight,
and it’s nothing you have ever seen before?
Is it when the sun neither rises nor sets,
and the sky is an array
of reds and pinks and oranges
and it is neither day nor night
and if you are in the right place,
it’s quiet enough to hear a pen
drop onto the blank the pavement?
Is it when you have put on that floor length dress
with the rhinestones and the glitter fabric that you
spent months saving up for, hoping that your companion
at the moment will like it and want to later take it off of you?
Is it when you spend hours perfecting your makeup,
like an artist would with a canvas and paint,
hoping that you’ll look amazing and will have the attention
of every male or female in the room to replace the attention
you were so cruelly denied in the home you were raised?
Is it in the theatre, when the violins begin to play,
and that eerie feeling is in the air, either being
serene calmness or strange unrest as you find yourself
lost in the talent of whoever is playing for that night?
Is it in the spring flowers that struggle to bloom,
through the cruelty of humanity and all those around it?
Beauty is nothing but a word,
a word created for description,
and aren’t there other words to
use for the description of things?
But if it were more than a word to anyone,
it should be considered the eye of the beholder.
something no one seems to understand.