The hidden threads

A metaphorical review of the simple concept of our innate nature

I took years and years of classes,
Surprised at the fact I started from null,
But presently, I was doing so well.
It all kept on happening, and
the inability dampening.
My adroit hand with a ready mind,
Mustered the courage and started the deed,
an ornate gown was the need,
Of thy majesty, the one of the kind,
The third to the sun, the life-bearer,
Compared to others, the dearer.
Mighty earth wanted a hand like mine,
To sew a gown so profoundly divine,
I traveled many light years, for me,
To find the threads for the dress to be,
The cosmos had not a single thread,
Of the abstract colours that I wanted,
Yet, it had other colours so I sighed with dread,
I started to sew to avoid myself being taunted.
The threads I wanted were that of love so pure,
Or the selfless colours, or that of beauty,
The threads that had the grit to cure,
any dark and loveless colour; that was the duty.
Yet the threads that were available,
Were that of rust, dust and evil,
Were rotten inside with colours so fallible,
Still, the majesty wanted the gown,
To make her just stand with a crown.

I had not seen the majesty,
A hand like me just couldn’t have,
When I saw her, she looked a little feisty.
Then suddenly I realized, the threads I hungered badly,
Were woven into thy majesty onto her skin,
And the feisty body still craved a gown so madly,
To cover the inner beauty from all her kin.