what's not to love?

In this sometimes frozen and cruel
uneven and scratchy
bitter and unidimensional universe
A shadow of beauty appears.
A pockmark.
A blip on the Evolutio-tron.
An anomaly.

It doesn't fit.
No room.
No space.
No place for it. Square peg, dodecahedral hole.

Nevetheless, it appears.
Masquerading as not itself, it tries to dissolve into its environs.
Adsorb. Blend. Cheshire-grin dissapear. Attenute. Unbecome.

But beauty does not fuction like this.
No, beauty is meant to stand out, for it alone is timeless.
Beauty trumpets. Its duty
To be blunt and daring
To charm and to move,
To inflame and ignite
to challenge us and to question us to question ourselves.
It asks of us to stretch and grow
to expand
to imagine
to dare
to dream into lucidity out of narrow perspectives
this plane.

To illume.

But what hapens when we do not see beauty for itself?
When we pass by, when we miss
ignore
revile
dampen or
otherwise unbeautify it?


Beauty then becomes calculatingly
extraordinarily
excruciatingly
painstakingly
unabashedly
cruel.

Harsh. Colder than cold. Devoid of all grace.
Wicked. Mocking.
A sentient precursor to a pain
aeons older than itself.

Is this still beauty?
Or has it been transformed into ugliness?
And by what process?

The ignorance of the human soul.


And so this shadow of beauty
by virtue of its own starvation
grows leaner
and
leaner and
steals silently away
into the blackness of terminal arctic night.

And we are left as before.
Unchanged.