SHINE

Hidden, this thing has light unto itself,

buffed by nothing but its own reason;

sensing just a fragrant incense

and a soft infusing flame.

Then darkly it sparkles, tender-bedded

in its frail-flesh husk, each unhewn facet

shorn from the searing that is love-flood,

blood-rush, laval tingle-warmth of touch.

Each new-escaping beam renders its face a rose –

beauty-blushed, full-open –

or the quicksilvered watery passage

between mind’s shoreline and the moon.

Until, with splendour not bushel-buried,

it seeps through yielded breast and bone,

ignites the fiery fuse of nerve

to set its sacred diamond

in the ring of its own making,

bestowing its most precious shine

upon the jewel who wears its crown.