Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
and that of the hurricane.
Tumult whispered white,
both Aeolian and corporeal,
strummed on strings of solemnity;
the ugly undertaker of buried roses
labeled as wary victims of feel-good graverobbers.
All bled emotions are this.
The Louvre's flashbulbed flecks;
the notes woven within coke lines of symphony;
fingerpainted twig-men crafted by bright-eyed smilers;
this juxtaposed disgrace.
All Beau Sancy in the roughest granite jewelry box
with graffiti scribbled laughing like urban Sanskrit .
"I am become death" dripped in blood through the keyhole
so it now mimics a cherry popped in microwaves
unlocking discomfort, yes,
and crimsoning the cocoon of the diamond.
Peep, Tom, at the glittering Godiva within
and watch her grow in the sacrifice of poetry,
for only in the presence of forsaking and death
and anguish and discomfort
and pain
can she grow to break the eggshell walls.
Tears cut canals in Time's beard
because he consigned the memory of the shattered horrendousness
to oblivion
instead of honoring their homage
and paying respect by dropping tulips and gunships
into their graves at noon's meridian.
Opal eyed reader,
you do not understand.
My eggshells conceal themselves
within individual hells
of purple prose,
more of a lavender in my eyes.
But beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

all it took was a single look- he fell for her.
angel eyes in clear blue skies, he only thought of her.

the sun created her dancing raven locks,
capturing life- tempting him to reach towards her.

the moon would rise, singing solitary melodies,
and in his inner strife, he only wished for her.

the stars could taint the lonely night
but their brilliance couldn't stain his love for her.

chrysanthemums reflected in her sancy diamond lies,
and for her sustenance, he picked bouquets for her.

her beauty shone like carved, clear stone,
and his heart was enveloped in a cold embrace from her.

and as he fell, a willing victim to the abyss,
he smiled, as if all his breath was hers.