He Is Beautiful

Why is he beautiful?
Surely, not his body by mere appearance,
for it is gaunt and thin, though slightly toned
He drapes himself in loose garments
and makes his body do graceful
movements within the confines of the fabric.
He is quite graceful, like
some ethereal creature--not completely organic.
He stoops to drink at the water fountain;
his fuller than regular lips fondle the water as
it slides willingly into his mouth.
His dark eyelashes frame his puppy
brown eyes,
the eyebrows are musky and thickish.
His Slavic face is beautiful,
though marred by a single battle scar
and several signs of youthful afflictions.
He is rather tall, slants slightly downward
and his feet are about right.
His hair is a rough color, a blonde not seen a wash for some time--
friendly, nonaggressive hair.
It flops kindly over his face before he
gently sweeps it into its well loved place.
His fingers and hands--they are long, lovely,
like smooth flowing words they flow from him.
They are stained with the labor of love,
with paint,
and they go carefully over all he does.
He cocks his head intently as he
holds a murmuring canvas with one tender grasp
and carelessly rests a small brush with three fingers.
The look is so intelligent, I am glad I am not there.
Picturesque he is as he wipes his tools
and washes them in the sink.
He is not above labor, it got him here today.
He knows how to work, and how to love.
He glances back at his work.
It is as a mirror,
it reflects all he is. And how does he like?
He smiles gingerly at his canvas
His work is his love, there can be no other.
He will be faithful, but he will be beautiful.
And though he be beautiful outside, only
he knows whether he is beautiful within.

Back to Crimes Against Literature
Back to Negative SixX