Inner Beauty

Guys are told to play the field,

To see the chest for not what lies beneath

But what lies above and over.

We want our spines not to be bribed

To the cowardice, only to a leap of faith.

The orange is not judged by its rind.

Is there a bigger deprivation

Than keeping a heart unattended.

And simplifying the corporeal,

To the music of our grunts.

Love, an underdone heart that

Voices her simple theory of relativity

That even Einstein knew implicitly.

The bard’s vowel, is not the same

The body’s double. The straight

Road armed with unpromiscuous eyes;

No roses by the wayside; the larks in our bellies;

The crowded room that empties

When you are just head over heels.

The greatest feeling is to have

An outpacing heart, that gifts

A workout to a brazen body. I guess

We are all whimsical dreamers. The old-fashioned

Darcies who see laced corsets as they

Peal with their bladed eyes.

The branch that bears the oblong fruit,

Is weighed by the undone patience, but

Not the pomegranate, that cracks

From the outside, unable to

Hold another for any longer.

And she, with the talons of a cassowary

Bring you upon death, drowned

In her deep whirlpool, and the death

Rattle shakes one magnitude larger,

When banded in perfect aurum.

The constancy of an unguarded heart, that

Contrary to the cultured norms,

Comes back to the same book,

That with time loses

Its cover.

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