Remains to be seated

I had been staring at Van Goghs empty woven seat chair,

where he left his pipe, and all the aesthetic advice

of others alone, given room.

Is this pretty, accurate, I wonder

do we really agree to disagree,

I can no longer hear any one.

Yet in this instance, my tile floor is the same,

I wonder where we went…

I wonder would I listen to opinion, like onions,

what makes a beauty, is it unami?

Does beauty know it is some thing

special, sees ordinary and adds extra...

I have a mark on the top of my left foot,

Some call it a mole, I spy on it more usually.

It is often under cover,

unless I am caught barefoot.

It is pretty to me.

I also have a strawberry-

patch that I myself cannot see.

I came this way. Stamped and stickered.

Lately, my blue eyes have turned all grey.

My hair grows on, twisted and tangled.

Overtime,

It helps to see excess skin. Our outfits are now

hanging out of place, dangling heavy dead dreams.

Aging strains our vertebrae,
and wrinkle releasers wreak havoc on new software.

Our critical updates have failed.

Like you, I despised my body for far too long,

it has only gotten worse. It has gotten old.

I wear it down
to nothing.

Somewhere between scars and black

tattoos, my tastes have changed

and details have grown
and fascination falls short.

Aging is pretty when felt deeply.

Somewhere down the hall lies
Beauty, the ugly frame
hangs empty. Which are we,
classically posed
beasts of opportunity
making white
walls
more colorfully...

(non finito)

“I would define the poetry of words as the rhythmical creation of Beauty. Its sole arbiter is Taste. With the intellect or with the conscience it has only collateral relation. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever wither with Duty or with Truth…” 

-Edgar Allen Poe (The Poetic Principle)

Painting by Vincent van Gogh (1888) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.