The Most Beautiful Thing Poem by Enoch Cole

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING
When I was moulded from the dust of clay,
Or whatever substance thereof that emanates the structure that is burdened to make hay.
Lord you breathe into me life,
A precious prize, free from strife.
Hallowed with an elegant and graceful sight.
Yet you require from my hands not a slice of price.

This breath i have, I correspond with my solicitude so close.
Lord not me, but my folks declare with solemnity that life's not a bed of rose.
But I can recognise that obtaining it is all but a mile of pasture.
So my deity have clemency on them, for the afflictions and pains of this Earth, causing that declarence, brought about the lure.

Existence is beautiful as nature.
Whenever we walk through it's shore,
We're cocksure no one's going to gift an hedge to nature,
By grading the ditto to be slightly awesome over life, thou nature:
Breath is a beautiful thing.
Life is an immortal feeling.
My people presume it's all but done during death,
But I am confused why I'm convinced that it's just the dawn of a new breath.
Considering we're been admonished at our distinct religious grounds,
That life after death is bound.
What's there that can be more fascinating than an immortal sound?
None: so life is an experience I cherish so dearly.
Even in the center of trauma, agony and unwelcoming brevity.
What then is the most beautiful thing? life.
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