This image reeks salvation
And a feeling I've attained,
Through detested hopes and fickle nights--
Through crimson-coated change.

The texture feels like brail,
But though I cannot read,
My optimistic instinct
Says this picture speaks to me.

The background seems transparent;
Formation 'round the scene.
Trying blessedly to reach me,
Though surrendered in between.

Between the ink, diluted paints,
The rampant colors formed.
My eyesight dissipates...
Thy blurry magnificence adorned.

Thy border visions crumble,
Fall like dust, upon my shoes.
Scattered blessings I've collected,
I don't dare myself to move.

The wall is cold and silent
Yet the picture makes it smile.
It has not laws to what we vision,
It fears not judgment, or denial.

Calamities that shutter,
Or brilliances gone blind.
Anything's envisioned,
From but the smallest of our minds.

Golden palace, or casino,
Little shack upon a hill.
Vulgar paintings, blood-stained evidence,
Corrosive feelings, life-long thrills.

We are the painter with no palette
And the brush is made of air.
Stroke by stroke, constructed beauty,
To what a witness may you share?

Timeless passings, for no one heeds,
Or seeks to wonder why...
I stare upon this broken frame,
Into a thousand shades of white.
 
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