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At the house of beauty,
mirrors keep changing.

At the house of beauty,
my tongue longs for poetry.


I speak mundane verses
incessantly.

The lover knows;
these verses are raiment,
waiting to be unhooked
at the snap of fingers.

The lover knows;
all these words,
dry and heady,
are unnecessary filters.

They keep me distracted
from my truth.

At the house of beauty,
I wait; witnessing eternity
playing with moments
and a moment transforming
into eternity; longing for
your ever loving gaze.

At the house of beauty,
truth is spoken in riddles.

All my attempts
to make poetry, fail.

But I keep talking
to keep myself busy
like a child who imitates
an adult life in play
when the parents
are being missed.

I pretend
to be the poet
to forget that
the poet is away
and, the poet
is not me.

I wait for your touch
to come undone of
all that I call as me.

I wait for your mirror
to gaze at all that
I know as me.

I wait for your grace
to acknowledge
all that I can be.

I wait for your light
to remember all that
I am and, to see,
in all that I am not
it is only me.

In all that is me,
it is only Thee.

At the House of Beauty

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