Is it the unfathomable mysteries of the sky
Or the barren ground below my feet
Is it the lucid dream of the poet
Or the sunset on the horizon of the sea
Not the face, my dear
For something so evanescent and burried in layers
But for once I need to hear,
What’s beauty and why its essence so rare?
Is it the gaze of the woman you adore?
Or the elegance of a gentleman?
Is it the passion of an artist?
Or the first sight of innocence
As some may say,
This beauty is precious:
Adored by many, hated by few
Must be treasured.
Is it so special and important to you?
I’ve spent years in observing
And now, I realise
This beauty is nothing but a mere illusion
But why is it referred
To something so pure and flawlessly elegant?
Am I wrong? Or is this world living in a shadow of misconception?
This beauty is complex and hidden
Behind the shades of perfection; quite alluring
For something so rare and extremely fascinating
Pleasant to the eyes, could be deceptive
Isn’t this abstruse?
As for what I know,
There’s no beauty without ugly.
There’s no perfection without scars.
I believe that beauty really is
The darkness in pursuit of light,
Struggling to ascend and break the crust of paranoid thoughts
Beauty is indeed marvelous
But if it reminds you of pleasant things:
All shiny in stardust and glitters
This is not the beauty I perceive.
Not the beauty I seek.