In dreams your face is obscured, concealed, redacted
behind a veil of water or perhaps fog on the lens,
the features and lines a building crescendo of mystery
only to be unraveled by time and at its proprietary pace.

I look at you with wonder still, the awe still fresh
from the fire that sculpted you out of dreams like clay
being molded into an artisan’s idea of hope’s visage.



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