Beauty
How do I define beauty, let me count they ways.
No, I will not choose cliché.
A cloud patched sunset cools a lavender mountain range,
And a philharmonic plays Mozart,
These are the expected ways.
What tears come from,
That child who hands me a flower, or
That young man who dies in battle to save just one friend.
What cold heart is moved when,
A mother outside a night club attack, fears she will never see her son again, or
A talk show queen declares “times up.”
Why are eyes inspired when,
They gaze upon da Vinci’s work, or Monet’s, or Raphael’s.
And who’s ears are stirred when,
They hear the rhythms and tones of the folk poet.
I cannot define but I can behold.
RobArt Penguin 