Bulletproof Smile

With a gentle scratch we watch,

Watch as the thick, black ink

Seeps, saturates, stains,

Stains a parchment page.

The stain she can't erase,

We watch it run in place.

The ebony liquid pools and sinks.

The parchment drinks

The pen gracing face,

Every word, every line,

Every couplet, every rhyme.

listen to the prophecy

She: the author. I: the sage.

We see her every day,

A glorious bloom transfixed

Upon her youthful visage.

We perceive a genuine joy.

We perceive a perfect peace.

And every words she speaks,

And every move she makes,

Would only convey a thorough sense

of satisfaction, fulfillment, and purpose.

That smile,

That bulletproof smile,

Would anyone question its authenticity?

Those eyes,

Those delightful orbs brimming with joy,

Would anyone imagine them brimming with tears?

And this is the question,

Does imperfection dare critique perfection?

For in those hallowed moments of the reserved,

When one's mind is quiet,

And fear finds himself unlearned,

I've seen a cocoon woven in bitter tears.

Each fibrous strand forged in the furnace of doubt.

I've seen a colossal tower built in fears.

Brick by brick, and black within,

Thick, so thick, and thorns without.

Perhaps it's just a void within.

Perhaps it's just a question begging for clarity.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's the nebulous enigma of a beautiful mind.

Perhaps what I see is an aesthetic perception that has yet to come to term.

Still in its infancy, it knows what it is,

But fears to be exposed to an otherwise unsuspecting world.

So she writes,

The pen to the parchment,

Etching in shallow scratches.

So she writes,

The pen to the page,

Wielding windless words.

They beg to be spoken.

They yearn to be heard.

But they would be satisfied,

If only to be read.

So with a gentle scratch I watch,

Watch as the thick, black ink

Seeps, saturates, stains,

Stains a parchment page.

The stain she can't erase,

I watch it run in place.

The ebony liquid pools and sinks,

The parchment drinks,

The pen gracing face,

Every word, every line,

Every couplet, every rhyme.

I believe in that smile,

That bulletproof smile.

It's authenticity is without question

In my mind.

However, I hear the strike of a match.

I smell the sulfurous sensation,

As spark begets spark begets flame begets fire.

Oh, the smile is real,

But with a dreadful start I watch,

Watch as the hot, blue flames

Kiss, caress, consume,

Consume a parchment page.

The page she can't replace,

I watch it burn like lace.

The consuming fire whips and whirls,

The parchment curls,

Where the pen once had graced,

Every word, every line,

Every couplet, every rhyme.

Oh, the smile is real,

But in the gleam of the firelight

I see those eyes.

But is it joy with which the brim?

I perceive a contrast to that smile,

That bulletproof smile.

Not a contradiction, mind you,

But rather a complimentary antithesis.

And as those delightful orbs of aesthetic perception

Watch the words wither and grey,

She's already thought of penning the next one,

And burning the beauty forever away.