The beautiful

No snowflakes fall to overlay
the truth of who we are
and yet there is a shroud
thick, heavy, and so dense
that grants unto the beautiful
the semblance of a grave.

And when there are no snowflakes
no one thinks to clear away
mortal imperfections
and facilitate the rise
of the buried but not dead.

So the beautiful lies comatose
awaiting the awakened
to brave the elements
like a determined warrior.

But we are lovers, are we not?
Out fighting spirit tackles nought
but flesh and bone, muscle, fat,
and what we say and do.

And then I don’t like you,
and you and you and you,
until I am possessed of tools
to dismiss the now imperfect.

And then I still don’t like you,
And you and you and you,
for in the clear and sweep away
the beautiful is not always
appealing to my eyes.

But you, “the” you, unknowingly
rose unaided into view
and in that moment of glory
I fell in love with you ~
but then you disappeared
back into the grave.

So the beautiful lies buried, lost,
to ne’er again rise from the grave
and stand naked before the eyes
of a woman who loves …
the beautiful!

Helen / 23 December 2009