The Last Unicorn
Beauty defeats pointlessness.
Real beauty, not that inane pop culture dementia,
that insanity that captures and enslaves beauty,
cages it, chains it, numbs it, dumbs it, domesticates it,
in order to fend off our own pointless existence.
We are so frightened of life that we daren't
speak truly of death to one another.
But because we rarely find real beauty
in our insectoid mad, civilized society.
We fool ourselves with illusory beauty
that has less substance than shadows,
and that fuels our insatiable need for more,
ever more because the ache never leaves,
and we never forget the crimes we commit,
but in our cowardice we refuse, we deny
until the blood of the last unicorn, still denied,
runs cold in pools of lost chances, we deny
to the end of it all when it at last is pointless
to realize, apologize, and cry . . . real tears.
For only real beauty satisfies the heart,
and that beauty can only come from within,
and the only way to go within ourselves is
to commune with the universe without.