Not Beautiful

     

I, am not beautiful; not that way, not

to open my eyes and wake

to a day in yours; adored; every

part important

to the glory

of a sunrise, or the sinking of light in an azure sky.

My eyes,

are not, the thing

you watch 

the flames 

dance across,

nor the softness of my skin,

a cloak for you, against the autumn breeze - 

what you see, is not the glow 

of my soul, in those embers,

not the burning of my being in the 

crackle of the blackened

wood.

     

I, am not beautiful - though my 

heart is a rose, for you,

given,

ever-perfect,

crimson bloom;

you gaze upon it, in silence,

crush it,

and smell its perfume,

and turn away;

not exquisite enough, to stay

in your hands, 

or be called your own - only

a rose, 

that shrinks and depletes,

held dangerously close to the damaging

heat; that shrivels

with the searing 

of cold words and

averted eyes; 

    

still,

it struggles, in faith, to survive.

     

I, am not beautiful.

Will you notice, before it dies?