Within an isolated pond, beryl algae emerges like a mother tortoise from her shell as the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. The honesty of wilting flower, her dying children: She doesn't mind that yes, we will remember her like this, not the graceful delight she once was. Or perhaps, the sole flaw in your award winning tomato garden, a stubborn weed, that just won't go away, no matter how hard you stab, regardless of the basin of Swedish fertilizer pooling at it's feet
What is beauty?
Guilt churns like Amish butter atop your molars leaving you jumpy with each ring of the telephone.
Wet, his skin glows with a majestic luster from the constant stream of creativity seeping from his pores.
The chatter of children's teeth and cascades of snow serve as the only trophy for the aggressive weather.
Proclaiming her strength, a steady stream of sweat that belongs to anyone but herself, runs across the overexposed spine of a newly formed warrior. Years later, she stands bare and vulnerable, waves of hair crash upon the ocean that is her back, presenting herself to you, she offers an honest invitation to open the door and forever change her.
What is beauty?
Overly excited, all too eager, you've felt the feeling before, cherries ooze out of the top of a pie crust.
Whereas a utopia flourishes between the lips of two lovers you are left to believe that upon taking a hammer to your skull, all your ideas and fantasies would pour right out, purer and cleaner than water. No blood, no science, no worries. Across town, in his porcelain padded room he closes his eyes, a cloudy image forms between his bitter eye and its lid. Her memory is fading, but her radiance remains like the eternity of two mirrors facing each other.
Hark! Could it be?
Beauty.
What is beauty?
Guilt churns like Amish butter atop your molars leaving you jumpy with each ring of the telephone.
Wet, his skin glows with a majestic luster from the constant stream of creativity seeping from his pores.
The chatter of children's teeth and cascades of snow serve as the only trophy for the aggressive weather.
Proclaiming her strength, a steady stream of sweat that belongs to anyone but herself, runs across the overexposed spine of a newly formed warrior. Years later, she stands bare and vulnerable, waves of hair crash upon the ocean that is her back, presenting herself to you, she offers an honest invitation to open the door and forever change her.
What is beauty?
Overly excited, all too eager, you've felt the feeling before, cherries ooze out of the top of a pie crust.
Whereas a utopia flourishes between the lips of two lovers you are left to believe that upon taking a hammer to your skull, all your ideas and fantasies would pour right out, purer and cleaner than water. No blood, no science, no worries. Across town, in his porcelain padded room he closes his eyes, a cloudy image forms between his bitter eye and its lid. Her memory is fading, but her radiance remains like the eternity of two mirrors facing each other.
Hark! Could it be?
Beauty.
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