Ode to the Architect; the Building of Beauty

Each single brick a sentence

A tonne of heavy stone

A weight on aching shoulders

The grinding down of bone

As every colour merges

Into a haze of black

To mirror the desperation

Of an insomniac

For though her eyes are open

She often fails to see

That what she has is perfect

A thing of true beauty

It needs no alteration

It has its own allure

You do not need to change it;

True beauty has no cure.

By Isabella Steel

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