saints and secrets
created over the span of a life
written down and read aloud
to make it valid; it's crowded
in here, where we're living
day in and day out, in our heads.
we seek escape; there's enough here
to feed the whole brain.
i think i'd rather let it starve
after the last time i watched it fill up
on the ideas they'd lead me into believing
and how they ate what was left
when i was just trying to prove i was right.

there's nothing left to prove here
they've made their points,
and they're making it poignant
that there's nothing left in their points.
once i begin pointing any of it out,
i'm the one who's a heretic
and i'm the one who's corrupting
the true imagery they're trying to paint
in the canvas of everyone's minds.

blank, white, and pure at birth,
filled in over age with the brush strokes
and the colorization that's found
in nature as naturally we create
the world we see, how we see it, and why.
tell anyone what's right and what's wrong
and you're telling just another lie.
you're the artist, and your interpretation's lingering
as you tell me about the way you've painted the sky,
they way you've painted your life,
and the picture you're painting,
well, it's getting darker and cracking with age.

as you wander about the museum,
you'll find them; saints and secrets.
hidden in each piece of art, you're painting
the pictures you're seeing in your own mind
and as they fade into memory,
they're pointing themselves towards you;
introvert and reveal you're findings.
nothing but secrets you'd kept from yourself,
as well as the sainthood you'd been seeking,
redemption for the belief you let yourself believe.
and here i am, the heretic.