Taking the conceals from the surface facade

I find the varieties I assumed I held dear

were murmurs, delicate voices in a packed room,

squeezed by show, shadowed in sprout.

 

What does beauty hold, unpainted, untamed,

unburdened by shades we aimlessly acclaimed?

I request from myself: what lies under

the cleaned colors, the coatings, the sheath?

​

For beauty isn't bound to a tone or a shade,

nor secured in the shades that our brushes made.

It's in each line, each spot and scar,

the untold stories that make us what our identity is.

 

Decolorizing beauty, I clear my view

stripping away my thought process was valid,

opening up the quintessence, the unadulterated, uncovered

effortlessness,

in the crude, legitimate light of an unfiltered face.

 

So here's to the magnificence that is established in soul,

in spaces uncolored, in parts still entirety.

Relinquishing the requirement for cunning and pretense,

I see the world new — through decolorized eyes.

​

I dismiss the striking shades my skin,

like nightfall clearing stars off of the sky,

also, watch as colors float, weightless,

abandoning the exposed truth.

 

Colors once splendid like firecrackers,

mellowed to calm grays and whites,

are murmurs in a packed room —

I hear their reality, delicate and crude.

 

There is opportunity in this shedding,

in the downpour that obscures all edges,

where magnificence inhales without camouflage,

its varieties washed back to the spirit.

 

I let go of the striking shades

that recount stories I won't ever pick.

Here, deprived of assumption's cover,

I'm wild — entire, lastly known.

 

No color grips, no shadow ties,

simply an unadulterated, unvarnished plan.

This is excellence, clear as twilight —

unfiltered, yet interminably mine.

​

Beauty once distinctive, similar to a nightfall's furious shine,

Obscures into delicate shades, pale and smooth.

Once painted splendid with strong strokes and tones,

Presently blurs to murmurs, similar to fog from the dew.

 

It's stripping the sparkle, similar to leaves from a tree,

Uncovering exposed branches that influence wild and free.

The varieties trickle down like downpour on glass,

Washing the veils from each face I pass.

 

Magnificence, presently peaceful as a still, delicate ocean,

Presently not enhanced, yet essentially to be.

It's deprived of shine, similar to stones smoothed by tide,

Underneath all the surface, nothing remains to be covered up.

 

Each layer pulled back, similar to mists from the sky,

Shows truth lying delicate as sunrise's delicate moan.

Decolorized beauty, similar to starlight became white —

A stunner not blasting, yet all at once quiet and calm.

 

Beauty, when distinctive as a field in blossom,

Is delicate and valid in the faint, open room.

I see it now, crude, similar to a breath, free and unadulterated

—

Magnificence uncolored is beauty secure.