Sorrowfully Bent Art

Innocent I shall try shelter

the places that are hallow.

Waters that cleanse despair

dwindle becoming shallow.

A flaw it contorts an object,

poised for an artist’s strokes,

that express a great duress

and feelings that do choke.

Gently nothing draws out a

poor painter’s imagination

like the sight of such beauty

drawn in the machinations.

How do the eyes see a world

that is twisted by such greed

that beckons a simple spirit

to a canvas for art to bring?

I’ll hold high hopes for an art

pursued by a flooding torrent

that crash upon objects close;

to contort sight so evanescent.

Trouble contorts the birthing

of great creation look to see

the hallowed places become

veins that profusely do bleed.

So we wrap wrenching sorrow

in gauze glued harmoniously

to stave the injury afflicted in

to find to heal so beautifully.

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