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The Alchemist

He draws a line in arabesque, to trace
a whirling smoke around the mortal band;
surprised vacancy wraps around a hand,
that would now sculpture beauty’s lovely face.

With hands in cosmic mist he would aspire
to fold back stars beyond the milky sea,
but what he finds, re-forms, increases ire
where eye ahead of sense cannot see?

And though his soul in sweet radiance blush,
in heaven’s twinkled call, in her full rush,
he struggles still to place her sweet face near,
in this instance of beauty’s presence here;

but feels its loveliness everywhere
in lieu of letter, word, frame or brush.

Editing stage: 

Comments

Well written, has a lovely mystic feel about it. Enjoyed reading this out loud. Regards Roscoe...

Roscoe Llane,

Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.

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