One's eyes behold the beauty of a being

Yours, hers, ours, theirs, his

And for no apparent reason

We all trick ourselves into believing

That beauty is what the world wants it to be.



The world is fickle, an old thing

In her tight grip she wields a cane and a whip.

The cane, a horrid looking thing she lifts;

She lifts and points with it

At the pitiful lot who do not fit in.



The pitiful lot who do not fit in 

To the likes of her version of beautiful beings.

So, she lifts the horrid looking thing

And points; she wields her whip.

She wields her whip skilfully.



No, she does not hit them with it

At least not directly, not physically.

It's all in the head, the mind, listen:

To the sound it makes as it swings

Through the air, almost mocking.



Mocking, laughing, pointing, sneering

Whispered words behind you resound within

You: your clothes, your hair, your skin

Your eyes, your nose, your friendly grin

Horrid, horrid, bad, small, big, bad teeth.



Can you hear it? Listen to the sound of the whip

As she slashes through the air with it

As she points with that horrid thing

As she beholds you and finds you undeserving

Unworthy of her praise because your beauty

Is lacking.



Suddenly, watch her freeze,

Watch her turn her cane and whip

Away and point it and wield

At some other poor prey. Listen:

To the new mental warfare she will rage

As she beholds and concludes that they are once again, unworthy of her praise.



And watch it again.

And listen again.

For she will always change.

What is beautiful to her today

Will become hideous the next day.



If you can discern her ways,

How fickle she is, how age

Has done a number on her mind, in her brain,

How she will never truly appreciate

Us as we are, then the curse she has cast upon us will break.



And beauty will be but a word, 

And not a person, a face;

Not a standard to degrade

The rest of us, just a phrase.

Just a phrase.


© Curiousloi