Beauty

I

To some she lives
In a meadow, flooded with
The gold of April sun; there she is,

Within arm's reach, whichever
Direction one turns in
By dictation of fancy.

II

To some she lives
On an island far away; severed clean
From everyday places and people.

To attain her is a struggle.
Not heroic. The real, dirty kind.
With tears, heartache, some more tears.

In these characters' melodrama, she is
Unbelievably far, yet not unattainable.

And perhaps (and I can only guess)
That attainment is the absolutest of victories
If attained, that is.

III

To me, she lives
In a palace of frosted glass.
I see her move, a figure

Animated, but without definition.

And the glass is frosted like frost
On the day after new year: no fun.
No festive cheer.
Just cold. And obstructive.

And breaking it, I'm afraid,
Is impossible. I have tried.

Or maybe not, and maybe
Breaking it would break one's heart
Or breaking one's heart would break it.
It must be either one.

I wouldn't. Beauty is not worthy
Of the honour of my heartbreak.

Perhaps I say that because
I haven't yearned for the real deal yet.
When I do, maybe I too will fling myself
At the glass, like millions before me.

The blob visible through the glass
Is her - The knowledge is a sliver
In the skin of my thumb. Efforts to forget
Only enhance the flashes of fiery pain.

But slivers fall out, right? I won't
Break my heart to prise open her palace.

I will look at it from afar -
Just another sight to behold 
in the grand journey of life.

And move on.

IV

Slivers do fall out, right?