If we stop and see the beauty around us. We would complain much less and see more clearly.

This fantastic body of mine, declines,
like a parched desert and a-
dried up river in Dafur!
Hair receedes like brown dormant grass,
like Fall bordered by Winter!
Spring only knows how, when
and where it will sprout!
Age and time have weaken my limbs,
pounding of my feet a patter,
but the roar in my voice,
still fearce like a lion!
These eyes brown are vibrnat,
though at times images are unclear.
Oh, Monet's portrait of his home,
at Argemteuil, magnificent!
beautiful tress, crocuses, morning glories,
tiped their crowns to golden sunrays!
Red roses sprout, bud and blossoms.
Plush dark green grass,
awesome gardens surrounded by foilage.
And hanging plants drapped skillfully,
like spider webs over entrances.
Yet still enamored by Michelangelo's-
painting of the Celestine Ceiling!
Which elevates me near the throne,
of the eternal and great I AM!
Yet humbles me to the reality,
of my insignificent self!
Alas, focus and imagery harmonious,
and I love who I am, so now I see!