Why is it that beauty dies young?
The forest fire claims the young oak.
If only she could see herself as he,
If only she could feel her beauty.
Her one true love, the arts,
Stories told with the dip of a brush.
But in her mind,
Jawline fractures, cuts and bruises,
Stencil her face ugly; she has been robbed
He saw her as the leaves,
All shapes and colors of emotion,
Bound to a tree, strong everyday,
At the top of the hill.
She saw herself as soil,
That which lay beneath our feet;
Dirty and unworthy.
All he wanted was to enlighten her to her reflection,
Show her the fairness that resonated as the pigment in her skin.
She could not see through the veil; Travesties of her father,
His words intangible as the wind,
She denied him; Oxygen to the flame.
Now this tree stands alone, burning.
She would never know the soil she saw so unworthy,
It was fertile, allowing life to take form.
All he wanted was for her to understand her beauty,
To show her her image.
But his words remain intangible as the wind;
And soil holds no reflection.