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Beautiful, she was

Oh, so beautiful!

“Like the stars bedazzling the sky in fantasized patterns?

Like the fresh roses or sweet words of a lover?

Like the little mist on the tips of the blades of meadows?

Was she as beautiful?”

No, no.

She is beauty, but not the one you find in plain sight

Not the one the mundane world can identify

Not the one the mundane person can appreciate,

No.

She’s the kind of beautiful that poets write verses about.

The kind of beautiful artists paint as their muse

The kind of beautiful with her wild eyes ready for adventure

The one where she snorts in her laugh, in all its crooked glory

The one in which her cheeks go red and her nose scrunches in the bitter cold

The one that can cut through the glass but is as delicate as glass itself,

That’s the kind of beautiful she is.

She’s the motive and the murderer

The scythe and the ichor

The dreaded yet the adored.

But yes, she is a also constellation.

A constellation of droplets in a summer storm

Defiant, free, daring but beautiful nonetheless

Leaving the fighting ships baffled

For they are also in awe of her magnificence

Yet again in crippling fear of her power,

That’s the kind of beautiful she is.

Photo by Sean Manning on Pexels.com