The Beauty in the Mess

ruffles macro

Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.

 

 

The Beholder and the Beheld

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,

then beauty is what I behold.

My eyes trace your veins,

your rough edges,

the places where you have been bruised by life’s bumps and grinds.

I see the vulnerable places,

where skin is transparent,

where  cellophane wraps cells

in discomfiture,

uncertainty stretches you taut.

Human-packaged humanity,

comfort in warped wrap,

friendship in flawed form.

Yet here,

now,

I behold you –

real.

Imperfect.

Beautiful…

Gratitude

I could fret that my petals don’t match,

That some are shaped inconceivably small;

I could complain that my stem is too weak,

That I’m leaning too far, that my blossom might fall.

I could gripe that I’m alone in this place,

That none of my kind are in near proximity;

I could worry that I’ll soon lose face,

That in aging, my bloom will meet fragility.

But I could boast that my petals are unique,

That the sizing and arrangement reveal a rare soul;

I could revel in the stem that is so weak,

For it teaches me to lean on my Saviour as my goal.

I could learn to develop inner skills,

So that being all alone is not a lonely place;

I could rejoice that my hidden mental frills

Will replace my outer shell, and the fleeting bloom of face.

I could choose to see my world in sun,

Instead of drenched with gloom, in darkness overwhelmed;

I could seek to serve the Living One,

And live my days with Gratitude at my heart’s helm!

You Dare to Bloom…

Daring and brave, this.

Do you feel the weight of your missing petals?

Symmetry has gone on an extended vacation;

Harmony of composition eludes you.

The buds nearby retain their superior potential

And snigger behind your back,

A symphony of clashing comments

All the louder for their implied silence.

What makes you bloom?

Yours is not a  lot to be fawned over,

Celebrated with a named star on a famous sidewalk,

Or heralded by brilliantly garish marquee lights.

And yet –

You dare to bloom…