Beauty is not in golden skin,
Nor in the gloss we wrap it in.
It walks in places worn and torn,
In scars from nights the world won’t mourn.
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It hums in silence, speaks in grace,
In wrinkled hands and weathered face.
It’s not a flame that begs for praise,
But embers soft in hidden ways.
It’s in the soul that dares to bend,
And still finds light to give or lend.
It’s in the gaze that understands,
And kindness held in quiet hands.
Not only stars deserve the sky,
Nor only eagles born to fly.
A flower growing through the stone—
That’s beauty, standing all alone.
So let the world chase what it will,
The polished shine, the perfect thrill.
But I will walk where truth runs deep—
Where beauty wakes, but doesn’t sleep.
Beauty is not only admired with the eyes,
But deep in mind where it lies.
This peom belongs to me. poet