The Beauty That Does Not Rest
Flames may lick
at unrested souls,
tempting them to burn.
And mist can cover
even the highest mountains.
The bite of winter
gnaws away
at proud trees
every year.
The painstaking crawl of time
leaves destruction in its wake
and wrinkles in a young face.
Someday this pen will stop,
and its hand will be dust
beneath the soil.
But even though
the pain is powerful,
my flesh is made
of sterner stuff.
And these eyes still see
the stars
piercing through
the nights ink-black cape.
And this mouth
will tell stories
until there are no more ears
ready to listen.
And these fingers
will touch silk yet
despite the feel of broken glass
And until the day
that this body
draws its last breath
I will see
the hope that remains,
like a candle in
the dark.
And I will see the beauty
that does not rest.