What is beauty,
but a word to an end,
does it describe oneself,
so,
discreetly.

Does it prove a point,
securing the ideals,
of someone who,
pictures things,
neatly.

Does it mean,
all that much,
when we feel,
we've lost touch,
in this world,
that does end,
so,
completely.

And in what way,
is it important to the day,
we find our love,
our life,
our freedom.

Does the word lose it's measure,
when you've found a,
not-so-pretty,
treasure,
that you keep in your pocket,
all the time.

Is the word,
so important,
that it deserves it's own holiday,
and song with a rhythm,
and a rhyme.

What is beauty,
but a word,
in the end,
with no solitude,
or rights,
or freedom,
it's sits on a shelf,
alone with its,
narcissistic self,
and does die,
in due time.

Sandra jacks

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/beauty-117/