The World Disguised in an Impasto (Revised Version)
We painted across the skyline a shadow
of cigarette smoke. We dipped our brushes
in the river making an intoxicated range
of colors flowing through the rapids and down
the ceramic cliff. It falls and shatters
like priceless porcelain. Shards then take
flight and rip through silk trees. We watched
as the bright leaves turned grey and filled
the neighborhood streets of exclusive communities.
The priests’ and pastors’ faces were blank and speechless.
Their hearts hollowed as it hung like fruits in late autumn.
And it’s not getting better—I could feel the smoke
we created in my lungs and it’s weaving in a cancer.
The windows’ frames are the edges of a canvas
with a picturesque image of illustrious light,
but a disguise of an impasto covering the overflow
of a colorless sky. The movement of the wrist slides
the brush through the canvas, an image of the choir
singing through the crack door of the sleeping chapel.
After this night, can we at the very least attempt to open
the blinds and allow the light to shine for tomorrow.