How strange a thing to think
beauty may be captured with the eye,
when the roots of what is beautiful
run deeper in the heart
than veins of silver and diamond
course down into the earth.
How easily one may mistake
a glowing appearance for some hallowed halo,
when truthfully such things are pyrite—
the gold only fools crow over.
Beauty is not a thing you are,
some ivory pedestal to perch upon;
instead, it is what you do:
the ripples your kindness sends
as love letters to the world around—
grace extended inwards to be reflected beyond.
So when you are tempted
to measure worth by the mirror
whispering imperfections to all who look,
remember:
two dimensions is fine enough for paper dolls,
but human heart and soul divine
cannot be clipped to suit a magazine's collage.
