I have never felt beautiful
At least, not in the conventional sense
Or in any sense - if I may speak my true
But I know enough to make sense of why:
To the lord I was clay
Soil and water his fingertips could work
Into the image of himself
Some call it an act of self obsession
I call it perfection emulation
In empyrean skies I was created
Infallible creator
Though fallible in that moment
When his hands gripped my dirt form
And his eyes strayed, his heart detached
The result, tainted art
Unpleasant to the eyes but he is not wasteful
And he does not remould
He sent me as I was, and I am still