We imagine beauty, this inner artifact, projected through
senses; but could it be—that beauty is inherent, needless of an audience? We
say of beauty it must come to life; but isn’t it living—free of hindrance—and
free of observation? The statement becomes: beauty is glorious, whether it
remains unsighted; and beauty titillates, as to remain beauty, even when
vexed. I shift and churn, scribbled in
an auditorium, receiving beauty’s essence: this faraway charm, this unlocked
dungeon, this feeling of alienation; for surely we see them not, but rather an
object—that becomes hostile. We were
given a moment—the obvious unspoken, a pair of spirits and loins. I knew not
the culture, or more the fragrance, and it seemed shallow to ask: this is
thoughts, fully self-conscious, retreating, as yearning advancement. I knew not
this soul—an aspiring humanist, bent and slanted by equality. I knew not the
human, seated beneath the beauty, where such is augmented by the human! I knew
a face, and curves, and long mane. There’s
chaos to beauty—this world longing romance, attached to sophistication: the
manicured this, the pedicured that, those moments where art comes to life. We
see subtleties, as conceived through minds, where beauty is resting in
instincts: this vast wilderness, as natural as breastfeeding, where a smile is
misconstrued; for we yearn this furnace, as to create this flame, while beauty
has forgotten sentences; those spoken from heart, as to convince an audience—of
this undying fervor. I knew not the
consequences—of musing without guards, a set of warriors to bring us home! I
floated freely, and died reluctantly, as to infuse a paragraph; or even a
stanza, to see those tenses, searching for a predicate: this magical arm, this
mystical body, those pains that come from beauty. I knew not the thunder, as
confused with articles, generated from within: the silent grunts, that caprice
outburst, that second in time where beauty was sad.
