You are beautiful like a bloody-toothed ghost that rises out of the sewer grate singing glorious Mene, mene, tekel, parsin.
You are beautiful like a one-eyed dog gnawing on a mud-smeared rubber bone and whining because of the bleeding wound in its fur.
You are beautiful like a smashed car abandoned in the littered dust of a roadside where no one lingers and all flee.
You are beautiful like a dank cellar where laborers hide to smoke and rat-kings scrabble singing songs of bored solitude.
You are beautiful like a gray-green cloud of industrial fumes that goes buffaloing out of a highway-side smokestack so that the clouds are like unto the dross of a hacking cough.
You are beautiful like the discarded bones and rinds deployed in a back-alley dumpster, where the wealthy turn their heads and the white-eyed castaways scratch for morsels.
You are beautiful as the hollowing wind in the stone canyon of overhanging gray filthy concrete where solitary bundled madmen and optimistic drunks wander where the stars cannot be seen.
Mene, mene, your days, your days are numbered, are numbered,
Tekel, you are weighed in the balance and found to be an ill measure.
Parsin, your kingdom shall be stripped from you and given to others,
Where are the days of beauty, that you are beautiful as the bloody ruin of a battlefield is beautiful where the seagulls pick at the corpses ,
That you are beautiful as the spits and shards of splintery wood from a burned-down barn are beautiful layered with char and piled upon bone,
That you are beautiful as the thirsty brown weeds and yellow-green grasses have grown over a vacant lot full of cast-off papers and cans and other desolate refuse that in their indolence are signposts that here hope has died.
Where are the days of beauty? And let these words smite the world like falling rocks.
You are beautiful as the sweat-ringed eyes of a maddened athlete lunging into the fray with scarred hands curled into claws.
You are beautiful like the baby bird too soon turned out of its nest and creeping across the brown grass and through the mud making cheep cheep sounds like tiny bombs.
You are beautiful like a pile of discarded food cartons dripping oil and slime in the corner of a vacant lot full of reeking weeds and Coney Island whitefish.
You are beautiful like the wreckage of a stripped-down decade-old car atop cinder blocks in the corner of a slum street overspread with the dark foliage of crooked trees.
You are beautiful like the endless headache-inducing flicker of a fluorescent bulb in a basement office where gloom rules and the stars seem further away.
You are beautiful like the purple of skin that the sun has baked as the sad one sits by the seashore in the scrap of a chair staring into the soft sunlight dreaming dreams of a youth that never was.
Mene, mene, tekel, parsin,
Where are the days of beauty, days when songs were in the leaves and the colors were brighter seen with eyes of delight?
Where are the days of beauty when dogs ran free upon the plain and howled worship of god into the black-shrouded moonlight?
And where are the days of beauty when the mountains were capped with the perfect snows and ice-crusts of God’s love?
You and I were born into the fall of man and shall take our comfort from philosophy.
Pray to God and lament your innocence,
For you are beautiful,
And can that now be an answer?
Contact me: firstname.lastname@example.org
Facebook: School of the Ages Series"
Facebook: "The Exploration Project"
Art Fist needs you!
All of the content on artfist.org is submitted by volunteers looking to showcase their work. To submit your own work, simply send it to email@example.com for consideration. We accept: images, videos, poetry, reviews, features, comics, interviews, short stories, comedy, rants, opinion pieces... anything which is creative or about creativity.