The word “striking” has multiple meanings, both beautiful and violent. 

I might tell you your beauty is striking; although subjective, I seem to think you’re favorable. 

Workers strike against arbitrary and unjust employers, which, in its own way, holds beauty. 

I strike a match on the wall, starting a small flame on the red portion of the stick. 

The light of the flame reminds me of you, with it’s soft glow. 

It’s funny, because i’ve always found you to be striking rather than soft.

I strike names of objects from my list of necessities. 

Your beauty struck me once again, and it does not welcome me.

People get struck down in the streets, yet they still fight.

Surely there can’t be beauty in something so inherently violent

Yet there is beauty in the morbid, just as there is beauty in you.