|I don’t own a poet’s heart
sleek, and smooth like a sweeping breeze,
warm like the sun in winter,
rather, mine is one of a brute
yielding to no beauty, seeking none;
harsh, and sharp but unmistakably true.
But I realized one needn’t own a poet’s heart
neither eyes nor mind,
just the knife forged in fires true and hammered with sturdy hands
for truth is nigh steel, it is but forged out of Styx
tempered in the deepest trenches of Hell,
for beauty shouldn’t be an illusion-
a flicker of starlight and a fleck of stardust,
it should but ring true.
We know the dark exists and hence we seek the light,
but deep within one must remember
beauty is but in the eye of the gazer,
cause lies and facades when pulled down
reveal the Truth,
and isn’t Truth gorgeous?
One can revel in the dark remembering the sky holds the stars,
it gives you another chance to hold your fear and let it die.
And I realized, at last, that beauty had been defined
hence it condemned me to believe I didn’t see true
but rather, the darkness, the ugliness, the old age
once acknowledged, all of it rang true
and every inch of the Truth was beautiful.