A Prophet in Disguise

A Poem I wrote on Beauty

It cannot be caged,
copied or commercialized.
No more than you can create,
or bottle a living sunrise.

Its wildness is its gift to the world.

It disarms us quietly.
Wounds us secretly.
Takes away our breath,
only to give it back
— sanctified.

The trees echo ancient tales,
the rivers whisper songs.
The world, colored and alive
— is a prophet in disguise.

It cannot be reduced,
fragmented or dissected.
It comes in the whole
— or slips away, out of our grip.

We long for it, searching for home
— like those lost in exile.
But beauty is only hidden,
to those who refuse to become
— like a child.