The picture
Day as fine
As the girl I spot.
How beautiful she looks, I thought.
What is so great? i ask.
Is it her skin?
Or the contour of her face?
The outfit?
Nah. Something deep, I realise.
Is it
Her intangible passion For reading, that's burning Brighter And brighter?
Or The glossy images of pages
Perched on her sparkly eyes,
Holding millions of stories
Etching all deets
In her young mind?
Birthing perceptions. Insights.
And changing opinions.?
Or how invested she was
To not acknowledge the world around?
May be that's what
Is so beautiful about beauty?
I feel it
but not see it or specify?
A picture is what it was Of self in the past.
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