Day breaks creation
Over and over again
And the wreckage of all
Days' creation becomes
The landscape it litters
With us and litters
Us with, and us,
The ones who keep
Shifting and recollecting this
Rubble in hopes of filling
A box we have labeled
"That Which Is Both
Beautiful and True," although
We feel small and disappointed
When we notice the box is not
Filling, remains empty, mostly,
And tempts us to include
The most abundantly beautiful
But false, or more rarely,
In fits of pique and defiance,
The unbeautiful, to our minds,
But thumpingly true, because
In being so wonderfully
Wrong and persistent we are
Pure, typical parts of this world
Ever striving to improve,
In more hunger and crumbling
Destruction, creation.
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