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,
Become the full retail package.
Organising as the grain of wood,
And then the floor of theater.
The fine surf of stained glass,
Projects shadow as form and cycle,
And light as commodity.
Redemption is only through exposure,
Of the inside out.
Of a mirror to live by,
That keeps promise,