Odes and Prettiness

What genres calls to the wielder to make beauty undergo a renaissance
but painting, where each irrevocable act is a dance recorded on top of its own steps;

and yet, when one asks what is or is not Poetry, one becomes many and multitudes, shocked
of hair and certainly fruitful, balding and carrying dues that you paid, uncashed checks never seen

by another set of eyes, whom did become the judge of your sighs, at which, the behestiest monster in tact,
frailing the certainties non sequitur act; walking when guarded is not great for your back,

staring and paring down sleepiness lack: when will it end up the way that it is, furtiveless watching for
no one forgive. Grammar was made up of all that there wasn't, logarithm variable vexed for its friends.

And all this is a sum, built for the generous listener, or in both of our cases, watchers, who will say:
Thank You, now I remember what is beautiful, because when I've eaten too many raspberries, 

I forgot how the first one tasted, perfect forever in my eyes, redone until I redid and rediscovered,
made like new in the mind and then eyes and then medium, of those who write pretty odes.