What is beauty to you?
Is it the sight of your moon, or the bliss of forgetting that it only reflects your radiance?
Is it the sound of a melody sung by an equally tone-deaf yeller?
Is it the softness of the petal that has infinite smooth spikes?
Is the tiny string that tugs away your worries not a spectacle?
Is the well-articulated thought not a melody?
Touch I will give you, for my spears line with blood
of all who yelled me ugly.
Do they not see the beauty
with which I uphold those spears, digging into my chest
so that it be soft as petals for you.
Is the irony of our distance
Beautiful enough for you?
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