The Standard

It is the scale by which we measure art

Evolving with each generation and yet,

Timeless in all respects.

Always it lies in the eye of the beholder.

Some, however, presume to restrict

Or mold what is personal.

Beauty cannot be manipulated.

We paint it on, flaunt it like a prize

To be bragged on.

Never a thought for those whose beauty

Is dead before it is born.

Still, what of the beauty of life,

Shrouded and unseen by the physical eye?

Where we live it is cheap, not appreciated; expected.

We live in a corridor, traveling from one end to another

Never so much as pausing at the doors we pass,

Fearful of what we might find beyond.

Our ignorance does not negate it’s existence,

It is simply ignorance.

What of the girl in Somalia with no thought

For beauty, only hunger and living?

What of the boy in Bosnia fearing only for his life

And not anothers perception of his looks.

Have we so little concern for what matters,

So caught up in our vanity that the true beauty,

The standard by which we are all measured,

Is no longer a standard but a casualty?

There is no standard, only Christ

And through him all beauty is revealed.