For all things that now reside
In our translucent beating hearts,
Are not clear from lack but from
Absence of meaning which will come,
Not with time, but from understanding arts,
The crafts used by forces laid
Just beyond our mortal reach.

Grasp them we may, but leech
Only we might, for a short time,
As they are fleeting, and winsome
Creatures, yet allow us lonesome
Beings near, and deaf from their cry
As we take their beauty; breech 
Their world, in want of aid

For our drab selves, shrouded in the shade
Of these majestic creatures, beauty
Is all they are - and we, we
Possess nothing that will serve as a key
To the nature that we haughty
Creatures feel we're the same, made
By some great being who laughs,

Laughs at our folly in half,
Half again that we are in error
To label beauty, for only delight
Do we find in them, in curious light,
A road to what he considers fair.
Are we so naive, as to dare
The creator of his beautiful items?

What then is in our hearts?  Gems
Or pearls of sorts, or transposed
Images, of dreaming glimpses of great
Over-bearing, which create feelings late
Of the emotions true, then hosed
Down of purity, stripped of the hems
That had held them together once?

Do we see ourselves as the dunce,
Who, with bejeweled crown, dance
And make many a farce, as to what
Lies beneath the heart laid shut
To our comprehension, never to lance
With our intellect, nor to pounce,
Like a puma, on what we feel?

But what we do not see will heal
The wounds to the true emotions,
Which never were ours from the start
But we stole and put into heart
For poor and ugly are we, concoctions
Of something greater, nothing but a peel
Of the outer layer of God.