The prophet who
walked upon us and
healed the sick
has forgotten about
the roof with the
bullet hole

I pray to a God whose existence
is beyond me
I kneel before the tortured
cross
I wipe tears of blood
and yearn for
the crucifixion

I keep on looking for you

                               in my past life

finding

             only remnants

of an

                                             unrequited existence

It seems that the words
I've used to create a painting
has been bound by a time
that I no longer wish to reconcile
The painting, beautifully saturated
is nothing but a mere mirage
that I met in the beauty of your
summer heat