monolith
from above,
true beauty
needs nothing—
perfect
in itself,
there's no favor
you could grant it.
Love,
on the other hand,
is a beggar
and a miscreant;
it shouts
in the streets,
yet it preaches
no doctrine;
it narrows
your options, so
you have to
keep feeding it.
But you cannot
convert to it
in a beatific
instant—it has
to be chosen
new, moment
after moment.
