Rotating necks, and limbs on flick;
The perfections of our torsos;
Are delighting and ravishing
For toast and cheese but like the breeze;
We can’t view our facial views…
Through mirrors, we discern errors;
Will beauty wake as real or fake?
For in our block, strong as a rock
Is our quiet soul, it sleeps we snore,
Disturbing it, we distract it…
Do we really know, phrases we know..?
Beauty is not the outside block
Neither is it the pumping hearts
But sleeping souls, purer than golds.