True Beauty

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

True beauty hovers, shapes that want your form

To fill them.  Instantly you feel them throb

Inside soul’s marrow or more like a storm

Of Birds of Paradise.  The Mozarab

Religion felt in fourteen ninety-two

The force of beauty, halos ranging in

The Christian hearts because of beauty, true

To what priests’ spirits prayed for, swelling sin

Away to nihilism’s zero.  Thirst

Had been replaced by fountains flashing wine

In Andalus.  The true believers, cursed

For centuries, sipped again the drink divine.

  It filled them as true beauty does like sight,

    The Saviored blind as stigmaed anchorite.