The foolish broken things we know
We are were never copies
Of any timeless types above,
Any templates down below.
Creation is continuous
Crumbling into novelty,
And the sheer white cliffs of Zion,
Each uniquely ruinous,
Describe dissolved trajectories
Of beauty as forgiveness,
Beauty as the sinner ashamed,
Saints born as accessories.
If it weren't it has to hurt,
Weren't it has to disappear,
To never be, begin again,
I'd be glad, for what it's worth.
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