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The beauty of a wilting flower cannot be defined.
For the power that has left
the breath, the kiss of death
is that of a different kind.
And as the clouds unevenly line the watery mirror above,
they contort and fire burn
though back time they cannot turn
For the golden circle must sink over the cove.
Beauty is not only shown in perfect falling leaves.
Or captured falling flakes
blown wherever them the wind takes
Just as the embrace of the wind sends shivers through the trees.
My eyes have come to love the hoarse calls from unlit skies.
That warn me as I glance
to watch sharp flashes of light dance,
And opening act for me as the wind cries.
I delight to find the smooth gray stone with just one crooked place,
a frozen scar where time has worn,
a testament to wind that has howled and torn,
A fragment telling a story that time cannot replace.
I love that perfection is not only found in flawless things.
A stone’s jagged scar
will tell more of who we are --
Why sacrifice a flaw for the happiness it brings?