An uncaring filter,
Where beauty is truth,
Not loud colors and perfection.
Beauty is the haze of dissonance.
Beauty is the passion in bliss,
Viewed from intervening eyes.
An embrace,
The grasp for life,
The struggle for truth from the cliff.
The truth that lies in the stare,
The glare at a surface of pretty.
The petals fall,
But beauty still lies in its idea.
Even when the image has wasted away,
From age,
From worries,
From life's meddling ways.
Beauty can fail in its ornamental ways,
Surviving in idea conception.
As a child survives the storm,
And a mother lays waste through it.
Or through the transition of phases,
With the ever moving decades,
And trades.
Beauty is the comfort of the present.
Colors disguise and hide the core,
The idea dressed to the nines.
Overpowering the sub levels,
Until reality bursts the bright seems,
With clarity puncturing the dainty show.
A medium can be reached,
Between idea and image,
Though bland at times.
Beauty is harmonious.
Harmony between disfigurement and ruptured ideas.
Between perceptions and people.
That is beauty.
The disproportioned and dramatic,
With endless color attacks,
Is an illusion.
Ideas in colors brighter than their reality,
Ideas falsifying impending doom,
Is an illusion.
The past without pain,
Without dirt,
Without inequality,
Is a rewritten story.
It is a printed lie,
A miscalculation of beauty.
Beauty is harmonious,
Between reality and idea.
Beauty is harmonious,
Between the ruptured story and violent colors.
Peaceful realism,
Awestruck reality,
That is beauty.