Reach Within

I do not want the finished product.
I do not want your polished veneer, the facade of flawless glass.
I do not want to see a completed wooden idol, for millions to worship.
I do not want the finality of you.
I want your rough draft, your unedited script.
I want the sand, before being ignited and formed.
I want the wood chips, sweetly scented and scattered as the wind blows.
I want you, as you are, glorious and humble in your incompleteness.

A smudge of waterproof mascara runs down her cheek.  Streaked there, her war paint, a dark stain on her countenance.

She's moving on.

She thought she was strong.  But, like the mascara, she melted away in the tears.  Contemplative now, she sits waiting for her inner light to shine through the blackness of the smudge; to hint at an inner happiness, and give her a vision of things to come.  But tears blur the vision and pull one more rough dark path down her cheek.

Is it possible she's weak?

She never was meant to sit in crystalline perfection.  Shattered and stained, she decides to move on.  Even fragments are beautiful, in their glittering multifaceted way.