Waiting to be seen in full,
Beyond the energy and matter.
To be appreciated and understood,
Even the dark matter.
She’s a poem in Blake’s wit,
But none to be moved by it.
A concerto in Beethoven’s genius,
That lands on no ears.
She’s the original Mona Lisa,
But no eyes to comprehend her.
Surrounded by the curse of eternity and infinity,
The curse of being all there is.
Accompanied only her self-awareness,
Entirely alone and forever unknown.