Beauty Lies

Beauty lies

In the present, of a future time

A home, in a foreign land

A turquoise lake, in the blue mountains

A library of lichens, on a glacial erratic.

A thicket of flowers, burning in a forest fire

Now, in then

Here, in there

Near, in far

Iron, in blood

Love, in hate

Mutations, in evolutions

Helium, in stardust

Hope, in regret

Magnesium, in geranium

Fragrance, in squalor

Guitar chords, in book markers

Beech leaves, in winter

Hail storms, in summer

Peace, in entropy.

In declamations, and proclamations

Confusions, and conclusions

In tall reeds, reaching for the old man’s beard

The black reflections, on a crimson pond

The revelations, in the revolutions

Ideals, in violence

Luftpause, in a just cause

Mountains in the mist, strangers who kissed

Migrating loons, and paddles under the full moon

Summer euphoria, and college nostalgia

Rainbow ridges, and alpine riddles.

Beauty lies

Not in the eyes, and neither in the beholder.

Beauty lies.

In the space between the words, hanging in the air.

A monologue trying to be a conversation

A holler, drowning into a lament

Arguments, conceiving justice

Answers, birthing questions

Carbon atoms, crystallizing into diamonds

Thoughts, becoming consciousness

Caterpillars, morphing into monarchs

An outlaw, becoming a poet

And a vagabond, always remaining one.

Beauty lies

Not in the eyes, and neither in the beholder.

The eye lies,

And beauty leads to the truths.

Beauty lies

In the space between the words, hanging in the air.

Between “you look beautiful, and you are beautiful”

Between now and then, here and there

Between love and hate, hope and regret

Between spring and thaw, ripe and raw

In creatures void of form, in chemical formulas with chromosomes

In the wrinkles of old skin, the creases of a dear book

In departed souls, taking one last look

In leaning closer, to hear someone better

In chewed up pencils, while writing exams

In nervous stutters, and solemn whispers

In sunlight, on spring greens

In sunlight, on dead pines

In the time to feel frostbites on fingers

Eight and a third of a minute.

“Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.” 

My forests, my dreams

My hills, my nightmares

My lakes, my gambles

My blue hour, my slumber

My rain, my geosmin

My trails, my holy grail

My light, my photosynthesis

My rose, my little prince

My lilies, my poems

My sun, my name

My land, my home.

Beauty lies.

Not in the eyes, and not in the beholder

But in the space between the words, hanging in the air

Would you let it be? 

(“Beauty walks a razor’s edge, someday I’ll make it mine.” – quoted from Bob Dylan’s ‘Shelter from the Storm)

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