In perfect worlds of
Imperfect beings,
Explanations of common beauty
Is long lost
To the subconscious.
So the shape and sizes
Are taped as prizes.
Nature, at times,
Sneaks in,
Tricks sin,
Seeks through vein
Then, attraction is found
In the colors. Their brightness
In the unexplainable. Its art
In the different. Its authenticity
In a world of blinds crossing skies,
And the limped crossing rivers,
Very few take the time.
To see <
Converse ’till it’s late;
Ask clouds of their beauty:
Free falling; filling rivers
But those who do
Are blessed
With a third eye. So skin,
No longer,
Holds pockets-full of lust
It holds beauty: something to map the lost.
Clothes are no longer framed by Finance
To honor chance,
But are
Intertwined simply
Inter the simplicity
Of none other than art—commonly viewed as beauty.
Sircharlesthepoet 