Beauty, soft as morning light,
a golden glow, a breath so bright.
It lingers sweet on petals fair,
a whispered song that stirs the air.
It rests in laughter, light and free,
the way the waves embrace the sea.
In fleeting glimpses, lovers’ sighs,
the stars reflected in one’s eyes.
It lives in youth, in uncreased skin,
the way a tale of love begins.
It hums in silks, in mirrored glass,
a spell we chase but cannot grasp.
But beauty’s hands are laced with thread,
of woven myths and words unsaid.
The colors shift, the echoes fade,
and shadows creep where light once played.
They carve the lines upon our face,
remind us all: this is a race.
The painted lips, the powdered cheeks,
a mask we wear, afraid to speak.
The whispers turn to cries at night,
"Be softer, smaller, more polite."
"Be brighter, bolder, never old."
"Be worth the weight of all this gold."
The hunger grows, the mirror calls,
distorted truth in silver walls.
The scales, the numbers, counting sins,
a war where no one truly wins.
The rose is crushed beneath the hand
that once adored its beauty grand.
What once was soft turns sharp and cruel,
a hollow voice, a hollow rule.
And so the petals drift away,
the laughter lost in yesterday.
But beauty never learned to stay—
it flits, it fades, it slips away.
Yet in the ruin, something new,
beyond the glass, beyond the view—
a beauty raw, untouched by chains,
not drawn by hands, nor bound by names.
A beauty real, unshaped, unscorned,
not bought, nor sold, nor torn, nor worn.
Not weight, nor skin, nor youth, nor face—
but fire, wild, and full of grace.