At the edge of madness you howl diamonds and pearls.
Your pain is a school unto itself–– and your joy a lovely temple.
A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.
What hell condemned, let heaven now heal.
History dressed up in the glow of love’s kiss turned grief into beauty.
In a world gushing blood day and night, you never stop mopping up pain.
We can cry for years but sometimes gotta smile too.
Where humanitysowed faith, hope, and unity, joy’s garden blossomed.
Love, Mercy, and Grace, sisters all, attend your wounds of silence and hope.
Even when muddy your wings sparkle bright wonders that heal broken worlds.
You are the hybrids of golden worlds and ages splendidly conceived.
What a lover’s heart knows let no man’s brain dispute.
Death wins nothing here,gnawing wings that amputate––then spread, lift up, fly.
Dreams dress us carefully in the colors of power and faith.
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