I am the architect.
My hands are covered with the ethereal residue of her soul
Shaped and wrought she becomes more than ever she was before
Or does she write the plan?
Does she fuel the muscle that pulls the string?

I am the teacher.
A vessel overflowing
Filling and feeding her over and over
Though I am beginning to suspect
She knows, she knows, and I could be afraid

I am her God on Earth.
What more worthy a sacrifice than she
To turn back time to the time before time ended
But the past seems to pale
And the blue of her eyes aligns me to the present

I am the clay and she the potter
The student prostrate at her feet
Her worshipper, her word my Gospel
And I think she suspects, knows
And we find it Beautiful.