Sights

What once was beautiful is beautiful no more. For when all is beautiful, what is there left to be? All was once terrible and so I was blinded. Darkness surrounded and clouded my sight. But when it cleared, I saw true. The world around was a beautiful view.

And so came awe at all I found. Beauty in everything even unprofound. But all was beautiful. And there was beauty no more. For what stands above the rest when all rests on even ground?

No sights so grand nor faces pure. Everything perfect is perfectly bland. There remains but one object worthy of sight. To see it is a curse, to know it is a plight. For all that remains is the painter of perfection. The soul that exists behind a painted mask. To know another person is an impossible task.

Yet only there does beauty remain. In understanding another and what causes their pain. All else has lost its meaning. Not a thing worth its sight. But souls are closely guarded. Concealed by masks rarely parted.

And beautiful they are, painted with such care. And careful they are to hide emotion they won't share. But beautiful they're not to me and my eyes. For in yours alone, beauty lies.