What rarity can acclaim to this elusive title? Where surely
claiming it itself is against its nature.
It might be what our mothers told grubby faced, knee
knocked flecks that dart from graffitied parks
when light turns dark.
Is it in the eye of the beholder, a stubborn piece
of irritating dust? Perhaps those who search
will never be rewarded with a glimpse as
perfection becomes unfathomably further.
Why does the haughty swan rise when the
it squawks more than the pigeon?

Beauty is boxed. It is wrapped in parcels and
swaddled in ribbon until one forgets that it is in the child's
face and not his hands.
Unmeasurable pleasure shouldn't be contained, it roams and commands like a caged tiger. It controls the eye and navigates,
onward soldier. So perhaps it is not rare at all but there
for all customary enough to
anticipate the undeniable.

Can one explode inwards? It's hard to know.
Expectation,
I'm putting on a show,
but I don't feel it.
I'm catching smoke and
inhaling fire.
If this is the end then
end it now.
Don't drag it forward and leave me
suffocating in the darkness.
Alone in the unknown.
I am not me, I am
the man in the mirror.
The tumult in my head and heart
cannot
take
**this.

I look forward into the great expanse, and

I see nothing. It is dry and it is arid and nothing

grows, not the toughest of  weeds. I walk and

I hear nothing. Only the echoing solitary footsteps I

force onwards. Ghosts and tears have fallen long ago.

All options blur into one: a steamed mirror;

a compass that cannot decide which way is North. So

onwards and forwards into the plane, though blinded and

fearful. For there must be something out there,

something for me.