It’s all there.

It’s there, all of it.

In a parent’s love for it’s children,

in the appreciation of a bird’s swoop

or song. It’s there in Shakespeare

It’s all there, right in front of us,

waiting to be enjoyed

in small drops

or joyous deluges.

But we kill it,

cage it, restrict it

with our isms

and transform Beauty

into the Beast.

The God’s in their shame

hide from the mayhem

as we take their names in vain.