Beauty is not in the polished,
nor in what shines under the lights.
It is in what has fallen,
in the jagged edges of a broken glass,
in the wrinkles of a face
that has already seen too much.

Beauty is the crack in the wall,
the dust dancing in a sunbeam
when no one is looking.
It’s the silence after the storm,
when what remains
is only what matters.

They’ve sold us false mirrors,
they’ve told us that beauty
is something you can buy,
but the truth lies in the shadows,
in what the world hides
for fear you’ll call it ugly.

Beauty is in the ruins,
in the scars of those who have fallen
and still rise.
In the flowers that die every autumn
and in the eyes that have cried too much
but still seek the sun.

Beauty,
in the end,
is nothing more than proof
that everything is destined to fade,
and what survives,
for an instant,
is all we need.