Glory Is That Tragic Beauty.
Glory is that tragic beauty,—
One that keeps burning up the sun
And that means for a second...
’Tis the core to a precious metal,
Like my heart in a magnetic field,—
Those opposites do attract each other
And I can’t live without…
And then, no one knows why—
Till full chemistry,
Or sunset of some alchemy
That draws me back each time
Some poorly dressed lad
That never knew the rain,
Might eagerly replace the jewels
Of winter and Triumph!
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