Beauty is darkness too.
It is night’s uncertainty, the unseeing
Of that which we so fondly gaze at day
Whose every line and flowing curve
By the brightness of the sun
We have studied with laborious zeal.
Borne of the candle’s flame.
A distorted figure dancing in rhythm
To a nameless beat, belying the stiffened
Form of its kin from which it sprang.
The voice coming from nowhere,
The mystery of a sigh.
Whose true worth remains hid.
1 comment:
But isn't it asset, this beauty, that mocks accounting?
Isn't it what ugly should be very wary of?
Isn't drier than feet stoned to bleeding?
A foreshadow that warns you of an incoming meta of trauma.
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