A golden gift from Master,
precious beautiful eye that I
see so clearly that I
shut the other remaining carnal orb.
It's tiger brown now fading, mortal.
Fleshly beauty once whole
now a patchwork of my Father's hand.
An artist does not return to a
completed landscape, rather he
brushes strokes for a masterpiece,
scribbles notes for an Opus,
ponders words for a poem.
As I roam this dusty place
fellow creatures
see shiny golden features
yet Sorrow and Suffering
never let go of my hands.
As if a woman midway
through a cosmetic makeover.
Cutting off flesh
of nightmarish proportions,
my reward far greater
than that of silicone.
Gritting teeth
through precise incisions,
forced to feel each painful emotion,
no medications.
Paradox remains.
Golden hand of soft caress,
a flesh hand of feeble distress.
Gold lips of holy kisses
"Law of Kindness" the tongue misses.
Shimmery hawk eye neighbors
a barren and blind socket.
Come Master, complete your work in me.
Let me be your living Mona Lisa,
your Moonlight Sonata.
Do not listen to flesh screams
that beg you away.
Grace for a patchwork bride.
Give what can never be taken,
your gifts.
New trials.
New creation.
