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Rated: E · Poetry · Romance/Love · #2272630
I notice things of beauty beside me while searching the world for beauty.

I made a thing of beauty as a gift
of gratitude with which to thank my muse,
herself a source of beauty and of joy,
which daily settles on my soul like dews.

I humbly placed my gift before her eyes,
and only wished to see her glowing smile
and think my work might merit some small praise,
but learned that she disliked it all the while.

No siren sang to lure me to the rocks.
Reluctant she, whose face has launched my ship.
So shall you when at last the tale is told,
blame me, not Helen, for this fearful trip.

Was truly for a face that war was fought?
Or did a heart beat stronger than it should?
Is love the same as beauty to the sane?
I’d paint the love with darkness, if I could.


I touched a thing of beauty as I woke,
and through her eyes, I saw an ugliness
which lay and dreamt of seas and wars ---
and thought of wrongs I never can redress.

Would things of beauty be so vile as this;
that words of love should read as notes of hate?
Must founts of love run dry and slowly die?
Or is love’s flowing an inherent trait?

I touched a thing of beauty once again,
and felt the best to which I wish to give.
Yet still the flesh and soul must realign
to be as one; as one to truly live.

Shawn C. Bailey
June 21, 2021
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