mad world

My hands remind me
of the sands on the beaches
of Normandy after
that one fateful day
in our history.

They are loved by
the tumbling flow
of time lapping over
their graceless forms.

They are also stained
with the blood
of the young obeying
the stubborn and old.

My shoulders remind me
of the sloping hills
of my home overlooking
the vast valley.

Wide and sloped,
endlessly vast in
their protective curl
all around the helpless.

They are also hard
as stone and swift
to shirk away even
a gentle caress.

My lips remind me
of the gate to
the graveyard near
my beloved home.

They are beautiful
and within them
they hold a
multitude of secrets.

They are also cold
and whisper tidings
of death that would make
a softer being weep.

No, I do not find
that I fit into your
senseless lens that
so blindly dictates
what beauty is.

Because I have met
beautiful people
who are uglier than
the eldest of sows

And I have met
ugly people
who are more beautiful than
the light of the stars.

And I am neither.

Instead, I find that
I am the appreciating eye
to the artist's toils;
and I am the spectator
to the actor's show;
and I am the reader
to the poet's pieces.

I am nothing, yes.
But that is more
than you
and your broken
stupid lens
will ever be.