Beauty captured my soul from the moment I saw her.
                            By her I mean the forever fleeting, overtly imagined imagery behind 
                           what Beauty represents. Just as an unsettling erratic reflex, my gaze widens,
                           my body unequivocally seems tense. Soon, I gain control of myself like someone  
                          who finally understands an algorithmic sequence. A-ha! How practiced am I to
                          really downplay her aura. My front is only because its mere social order to move 
                          with grace; sounds more like devalue the captivating energies around you. Some
                          would go as far to say "act like you've been here before". Well, I haven't. I've never
                          BEFORE seen Beauty in the physical forms she presents herself, in this life time, 
                          on this earthly platform. Could it then be, that I am highly inquisitive about the                                         appearances of Beauty in all recognized norms since, my soul radically conjures
                         ways to recall memories of her from dimensions before...Hmm.

                                  Furthermore, am I that delusional to think the sighting of a rose, 
                         the hypnotic looks that inflates lust of men and women by men and women, the 
                        visible perceptions of applauded art forms are only remnants connecting our world
                        to the consciously unknown. Question mark.

                                Nah. Surely that would be mad. Its far more sustainable better yet, 
                        conducive to enjoy the ideas scientific evolution has birthed. Would the Beauty my 
                       eyes and mind conceive just be parts of history I'm lucky enough to admire as concrete?
                       Maybe Beauty is just something only physical life forms are subjectively oblige to see.
                       Like breathing, is Beauty not just apart of feelings I find ways to intake and secrete?
                       Why do I find it contrive to hide its obsessive fragrance beneath me. Tuh. How could I.
                       Beauty is fluent. It seeps, bleeds. My natural aggression for things beautifying and
                       unique are the same feelings one can overdose on like narcotics from a drug street team.

                               So say it isn't so. That my soul reaches out to be convicted some more. 
                      That Beauty is incredibly captivating enough to second guess primal chemical                                           reactionary whims. That I'd halt my day just to be indirectly apart of her magical                                display. Just like the idea of unicorns frolicking within the realm of its magical estate,                          Beauty couldn't possibly be the formless bridge connecting me back to a spiritual place.
                                                                          Scrunched face