Lost

Only the wind combs with unmerited caresses
only the sun beholds the arches of the spine
where there flowers a face’s bloom
among a bed of petals seldom seen
though passed every day
by the steady stream in consciousness
who are looking for beauty
in places that will herald their own splendor.

And what is distinct and unique
gets lost in the constant shuffle,
forgotten if remembered at all,
slowly eroding in its spring of pride
because its potential withered
while fading in the light
that illuminated the inner radiance,
each exquisite detail that dwell
within the lines and textures present,
but like an eraser that wipes away images
so some eyes can eradicate
the real miracle of a single life
through the lack of water,
which comes from the well in the heart
when it flows with the words
able to given hope unto any budding stem
of a seedling spirit
totally in need of encouragement.