The struggle is found in the fine detail of the string.


Beautiful things mutate,

Becoming formidable decorations,

Through the lifetime twisting,

Of thought, to fractal, to armor.


Not just desirable, but glamorised,

An idolatry of missing the mark,

Early wounds,

Become the full retail package.

Organising as the grain of wood,

And then the floor of theater.


The fine surf of stained glass,

delimiting prism,

Projects shadow as form and cycle,

And light as commodity.


Redemption is only through exposure,

Of the inside out.

Grandeur reduced,

The gilding,

Of a mirror to live by,

That keeps promise,

Every day.













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