Beauty is in the being that felt it

 
 
 
I sit with diprosalic  
in my hair bathing in it,  
believing in it, allowing  
it to acknowledge dead  
scales laying secretly
around my crown
 
I pick up my  
double sided comb,
gliding and lifting  
dead skin from  
my scalp
 
I remember  
vividly as a child;
 
being combed  
to death making  
sure there wasn't  
a single flake to  
be discovered,
 
then I remember  
how every pain  
began to form
each scale left  
upon my head
 
how beauty  
is actually
in the being
that felt it,  
 
knew it, understood it
 
in a way only others  
who feel it can hear  
how every word  
is being sung,
 
in some
familiar  
calling.