By Leena Febles
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In stillness, I trace the shape of love,
Reflected in a face too handsome to forget.
But even beauty bends beneath patience,
Strained by the quiet weight of frustration.
A soul must reach its hidden depth
To find a flicker of enduring light.
We live forever chasing light,
Trying to wrap it in the arms of love.
Yet only those who dive to depth
Can truly know what makes one handsome—
It’s not the mask, but what lies in frustration,
And the slow, deliberate work of patience.
They say a saint is born of patience,
Forged in shadows before the light.
What then are we, who rage with frustration,
And stumble blind in the name of love?
Are we fools to think the handsome
Always possess the greatest depth?
No. The soul has its own secret depth,
Unfolded only by relentless patience.
Not every heart comes wrapped in handsome,
Nor every path lit by divine light.
But in the aching silence of love,
We sometimes find the worth in frustration.
Yes, there is music in frustration,
A kind of cracked and holy depth
Where pain becomes a language for love.
And though we beg for more patience,
We’re often gifted only broken light,
A truth far more handsome than false calm.
Because to be truly handsome
Is to have endured frustration,
To carry both shadow and light,
To swim without fear into depth,
And wear the bruises earned by patience,
As medals from the battlefield of love.
So I hold these truths: that handsome means depth,
That frustration is the forge of patience,
That light is born from the labor of love.
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