We entered.

“Come see the artwork,” they said,

So I looked, and I saw it –

there, up ahead,

And above, and below, and indeed,

all around,

In wall, floor and ceiling,

easily found.

They pointed,

“Look: collages, etchings, drawings, and paintings.”

But I really preferred the

subtle swirlings

Of the slate floor’s grain lines as they

whirled and twirled

And crashed against the edges of their

stone-block world.

They claimed,

“These collages profoundly express social awareness and deep feeling.”

But in truth, I thought more of the

ceiling

Where the gaps and the cracks in the rough

two-by-fours

Told me vague tales of time sealed behind

the past’s doors.

They stated,

“This artist portrayed life in candid and bold etchings and sketches.”

But my interest was all in another floor’s

stretches

Of marbled molasses set in wood

honey-brown,

Sealed smooth so I saw my own face when

I looked down.

They spoke,

“These paintings…” but I still didn’t hear.

I was too busy looking up, down, far

and near,

Completely wrapped up in all that

I saw.

This was pure beauty

raw.

What more did I need?

But did I

see all there was to see?

Could I

have looked beyond (and how far?) what I saw easily?

Could I

have tried to comprehend something unnatural to me?

Could I

have reached out to grasp a different kind of beauty?

Dirty, dusty, broken
With rotting beams
And sagging doors
And one cracked shutter
Through which sunlight streams
Into empty rooms with dusty floors,
The house stands silent –
Useless, condemned –
Full of dead, dry leaves
And hanging webs
And nothing stirs the old, stale air
And nothing living moves inside.

And people rarely pause to look,
And few will ever stop to see
The beauty hidden by the shambles
Of what the place was meant to be.

 But He…

He sees past the boarded windows,
The rotting beams and sagging floor,
And underneath the layers of dust
He knows that there lies something more.

He sees the long-lost glory
Of His original design
And He vows, “It shall hold life again,
For I choose this house to be Mine.”

He sets to work that very day,
He opens windows, flings wide doors,
And light streams in on the disarray,
Dances with dust as wind sweeps o’er the floors.

He rips out the rotten and sagging wood,
Builds up the floor, replaces beams.
The grime and dirt don’t trouble Him –
He sees through them to the good He dreams.

And He…

He toils day after day
For weeks that stretch to months and years
And slowly every part reclaims
At cost of sweat and blood and tears.

Finally He stands, surveys with pride
His new creation, complete at last
With hand carved shutters and oaken doors
And clear, bright windows
Where sunlight streams past
Tables and chairs to shining floors.
The house stands quiet –
But silent no more –
For through it its Builder comes and goes,
And He will never allow it
To return to what it was before
For He will always live inside.