Of Songs Unsung

Beauty went unsung

For a billion years,

Then a billion more,

And finally,

Before the chasm of the ages

Was at last crossed,

Before adoring eyes

Ever fell upon a work of art,

Before endeavoring hands

Ever sought to bring life

To stone,

Another billion cycles

Of light and dark,

Chaos and order,

Frigid winter, and glorious spring,

Hazy summer and hallowed autumn,

Went by,

All of history on this planet

Condensed into the first sentences

Of a book on the philosophy of the aesthetic

That you never read;

Beauty, in all her finery,

Weeping, at last,

As man enters the stage

In the final half

Of the last third,

To sing her praises,

To say,

In tones muted against the spectacular thunder

Of the cosmic noir,

That he had found her

In all of his sunrises,

That he had spotted her

In the flowers growing wild,

That he had seen her

Bathing in the Garden,

That he had spied her

In golden, soaring song,

That he had known her

In the poetry of ages,

And that he had found her

Pure, and entire,

Within all that was

And all that will ever be.


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A poet driven by the quill, a dreamer of impossible dreams, a lover of that which the world has deemed unlovable. We're all stories in the end. This is mine.

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