a treatise in beauty, not a list

object a)

she walks into a room like a woman in a rock and roll video

the noises go quiet

from somewhere a wind gusts blowing her hair in a storm of sulty dead proteins

a guitar howls with her every step

she is a goddess

sex given shape

lust incarnate

object b)

his heart hammers in his chest

she leans in

eyes closed

lips slightly parted

the tip of her pink tongue seen behind her sheer white veneers

he wonders

is it a dream

why me

object c)

she walks slowly with her arm firmly locked in her father’s

not a dry eye in the room

if she once personified lust

she now is the ethereal beauty that is love

a softer

less savage vision of beauty

but beauty nonetheless

object d)

her hair is matted down by sweat

pain and flashes of anger in her face

her hand squeezes his until the blood is gone and bone grates on bone

her swollen form

pushing for all she has

and with one last triumphant

herculean even


a small disgusting bundle of the purest joy is brought into the world

her beauty reaches a zenith

a culmination of years of growing and blossoming until this one perfect moment

object e)

as the years pass

her strength fades

lines grow deep from laughter and sorrow

her breasts droop

her back curves

the legs that once stopped traffic now have knots of veins that stop blood flow

but that spark still burns

a flame time can only dim but never put out

she is still stunning

in a different way

to him

there is none that can rival her

even as his vision fades

she is the only light he sees

One thought on “a treatise in beauty, not a list

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