To all that is beautiful, not always pure;
To beauty divine, and all the obscured;
To rhythmical rhymes, and those who lack tune;
To stunning sea shores, and tumbling dunes;
To those who strike you as pleasantly sweet;
To grace and glamour with delicate feet;
To those who are left with nothing to say;
To pleasantly pink, to presently grey;
To sizes at large, and those who stand tall;
To sizes that count as nothing at all;
You can not imagine the beauty divine,
The imperfectly pure you leave trailing behind.
You can not imagine what truth can unfold
With beauty that’s deeper than one can behold.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
To all that is beautiful, not always pure;
To beauty divine, and all the obscured;
To rhythmical rhymes, and those who lack tune;
To stunning sea shores, and tumbling dunes;
To those who strike you as pleasantly sweet;
To grace and glamour with delicate feet;
To those who are left with nothing to say;
To pleasantly pink, to presently grey;
To sizes at large, and those who stand tall;
To sizes that count as nothing at all;
You can not imagine the beauty divine,
The imperfectly pure you leave trailing behind.
You can not imagine what truth can unfold
With beauty that’s deeper than one can behold.
From my poetry book "The Reception: Black, White, and Grey"
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