Beauty is seen yet all around,
Through the eyes of this beholder.
But I wonder why when headlong bound,
My response compared seems bolder.

For so deeply can it stir my heart,
I was sure this must be shared.
That when too soon we're drawn apart,
I grieve the moment cared.

For others with the self-same eyes,
Emotions, education.
Seem not to feel the reflex highs,
Same rapture and elation.

And so, the source for me intense,
Another may disdain.
For them my emotional expense,
Returns no likewise gain.

Whilst others don't spare the time of day,
I'm beguiled, trapped statue still.
Though nothing for my voice to say,
Head and heart with discourse fill.

All senses focused at one spot,
One time, one thought one place,
All energy bound up in a knot,
A sight, a sound, or face.

For these feelings doubtless stock of all,
And experience of them shared.
Still focus contrary does fall,
And to each are unique squared.

So does this mean, I wonder,
That I'm toiling much in vain.
When deepest thoughts I plunder,
To emotions try explain?

Yet surely this is what makes good,
The world we see around.
In a way that diverse sentience should,
Where beauty's mores abound.

And there's delight in being a chosen one,
To whom such is revealed.
Where clouds have moved disclosing sun,
But to others yet concealed.

For the product of this different seeing,
Means variety is rife.
So somewhere for each human being,
There is beauty in their life.

Just as said of colour,
That no two perceive the same,
In beauty's context fuller,
Is this but its other name.

For I think I understand now that,
When beauty has effect.
That others are poor diplomat,
To what I might expect.

And what a world to try endure,
If perceptions were the same.
If everything was set and sure,
And beauty had a name.

If others felt they must impose,
What they feel should most appeal.
As if they only had the nose,
For what makes beauty real.

And indeed this is the fashioned case,
Where commoditised and sold.
Where then its virtue and its grace,
Our eyes choose to withhold?

I suspect the difference is but the stuff,
Which combines in me and you.
An amalgam life-hewn coarse and rough,
Of what we've done and do.

Our childhood, schooling, hopes and fears,
And first infatuation.
The sadness, joy and heartfelt tears,
Life's years; a culmination.

So when you find what exalts you most,
A beauty-full collision.
Be thankful of all to which you're host,
And its part in your precision.

And appreciate then, that what you see,
May be a reflection of this essence.
A beauty you aspire to be,
And yearned for efflorescence.

But be cynical not about this treasure,
The role in life it plays.
Just hope that its joys in generous measure
Ever sweeten all its days.