A painting book in which i could make miracles

i was born of cross and altar,
got all the way down on my knees to
pray to my father
prayed through the rain, the leaden
glass
prayed to the masses, the funeral sand;
dipped my brushes
in the holy water,
white pages in a book in which i could
make miracles.

Miracle of dreams the sleeping world
no nightmarish gloom
flesh of ghost;
awake the sinners to the sun
morning poppies
breath of light, milk of dawn;
the fishers fish, farmers grain to
feed the populace weak
the starving;
unblind eyes covered with cloth.

Paint with colors- plum like fire for
the cold hearted
dred swamp believers;
vibrant awakening for the daft
wearing the smoking
gun revolver;
cobalt blue deep for damp city
darkness
corruption;
but alas, the page, the empty brush.

Copyright © 05/24/2016 lance sheridan

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