What a miracle, to hang by a thread..

You’d think it would wither, but It blossoms instead.

It lives and It breathes and It moves and It feels!

And reveals Itself through what It conceals.

It would rather come forward than hide in the dark

But It knows that Its splendor would leave such a mark

That its very own eyes would not dare look Its way

For how could a verse contain the whole play?

So it… plays and it runs and it stumbles

And falls

And it seeks with such ardour and follows such goals

And it thinks that it’s found IT

But then seeks again

And when it’s done searching

It’s already there.