Beauty is a Feast

Open wide my eyes
the golden cast thrown vast in the sky
shimmers on the clouds; bold and alight
crippling your sight, rippling
like African gold.
I now know
this throne is a full-grown gem;
a stem
arising from a deep breath of life

Beauty is a feast.

Back home,
I created a face for myself
with makeup
now my silver self portrait
seems to be declining in value
escaping between my fingers
like white rice

through time, we all try to feel her out,
to see what she's got

Down a resting street,
a whore lays her head upon her own sheets
ink caged or on stage on it's page,
or a tigress, after a stretch and yawn,
on the prowl, forest howls
what's beauty?

Beauty is a feast.

Back in my mind,
I collect blueprints
on how to be a woman,
how to collect beauty to myself
like shells on the beach,
how to cast a spell
like a conjurer

In the Serengeti:
a zebra can catch an eye but does not match
the green grass' sheen
ebony and ivory gleam
what's beauty?
With gorgeous black and white

Beauty is a feast.

Back in my own skin
unclothed and alone
am I not the very descent of Eve?
Guitar and poetry,
I can only believe
clothe my naked shame
and crown this soul: whole and naive

At this altar of humanity,
I falter
I may play a bad note,
yet I keep on plucking this stringed box of wood
and walking on these pillars
of flesh that are mine

what's beauty?

though all else may cease,

Beauty is a feast.