Application For A Beard Permit

I am not a man of a mountain, but a mountain of a man
and my beaming, chiseled chin must be concealed,
lest it singe the very eyebrows of God.

Every day from dawn till noon I shave, dulling
twenty razor blades as my pike-like stubble
can never be contained by mortal instruments.

By five o'clock my shadow is a beard and my beard
is two beards intertwined in a thicket of testosterone-fueled glory
requiring new words like "beardsplendant" and "other-beardly"

But, O, if my fertile stumps, my stunted seedlings,
my clear cut swatch of prickling hairs were allowed to grow unhindered,
you would most definitely agree with my doctor's testimony,

"Upon examination of this young man's chin, I was transported,
to a bushy wonderland so splendorous one must muster
every ounce of human strength to not gouge out their eyes in its magnificence.

Wind swept through each majestic follicle like a poem,
their melodious rustlings whispering secrets of the ages,
their scent: an odoriferous bouquet of masculinity.

I would gladly quit my profession to backpack around this wondrous face
mane, acquiring sustenance from morning dew and the odd cracker crumb,
keeping a journal to record its downy splendor, but that would not do.

My own measly life, squandered in dedication to this outgrowth
of perfection would be but a droplet in the infinite hollow basin of tribute
it deserves. So I beg of you, let this beard grow."