It’s beautiful.
We hold it in our hands, it’s helpless, vulnerable, and, defenseless, is that why we find it so beautiful? Even when massive in size and bounty full, it’s harmless. Nature captures the soul’s essence of beauty’s peaceful allure… That small flower, that infant, the kitten, or dog that isn’t, as barky as the other canines. The small child is still small enough to not intimidate or offend with words and actions. The butterfly who leaves a blazing trail of attractions. Then it transforms. The harmless massive trees are turned violent from a storm, the child is now a man with a weaponized mind for self-defense and combat. The kitten is now a vicious lion and the dog’s bark comes from a pack of wolves. Poisonous is now the flower bud for the stinging wasp that flies like the butterfly.
Is its beauty lost now that it’s become a threat to you, and if so where does its beauty go to? Is it then beautiful, was it ever, really beautiful? What is beautiful to you?
Is it the untangled effortless peace that springs from the purity of simplistic existence? To be without the need to achieve any one thing… If the power is in knowledge, then to not be or be, that which we decide we chose to become.
To live and not just exist, will I lose my beauty through it, what if I’m dangerously in love with it? Or a threat to the ones who sit up above; not a second too soon before my beauty loses consideration through times comforting lie, known as patience. Young, wild, and free, to hold on to its frame even when I surpass prime time.
A flame to my name, not a line on my skin, but the beauty within who now and then asks me where have I been.