Darling -

I have unfinished edges.
Don't be surprised when my words
the ones meant to communicate
the soft folds of deepest love
scrape instead.

The throne on which my Lord sits
Rough hewn from my fleshy heart
Has melting imperfect sides.

Yet he doesn't mind the goo
So why do you
from your lesser chair demand a full formed gothic piece
impossibly smooth
and grand beyond all measure?

The Lord to whom I bow makes concession for my weak attempts at artistry
yet you who share my station here
amid the trying muck
cannot forgive unintentional folly.

I do not understand, my friend.
But I promise that if you'd like my flawed company
when you tire of your own
we can dance a spell and attempt to match our steps
in comic mimicry
well meant
of He whose dance is perfect
and in whom our dances stand a chance of holding some beauty of their own.