This world is a fashion show.
You put on that dress, that suit,
and strut
down the runway,

Fully believing the costume is you, is truth,
but over time that style you so invest in becomes silly,
past tense, like those 1980s shoulder pads
you only laugh at today.

Then it’s onto the next style.
“This one will save me,” a quiet voice inside says.
“This one adorns me so well,
it fulfills me and makes people admire me.”

But slowly its pinching waistband
and unflattering shape
are exposed
until you shed that frock as well.

New style after new style come and go like the years
until one day, most lie dead on the floor,
any hope of deliverance gone
in their thread-bare uselessness.

It’s that day, when you stand naked,
that the One appears.
And you see those styles as frivolous adornments
that could never nurture you.

For the singular truth is you.
Standing bare
in the shimmering Love
that you are.

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