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 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.