My nightmare filled with streaks of saintly garb
rousing the flares of benevolence
and the strokes of compassionate ink
scribbled on to the snow-hued papyrus.

The fields of golden grains unmasked
the unpolluted ecstacy of childlike desires
Simple.
Innocent.
Pure.
Softly swaying as the hammock in the dew air
gently rupturing the laddery pride.
It waves its resilient trunk
then stoops to the god of snow.

And the windows to the soul will tire peeking
and paint instead ashen hopes
Languid.
Reminiscent of pallid hermit
caressing colorless sands,
tranquilly hummed by the songs of a lone shell
under the unambiguous sky.

Compose your poems
now with the sallow ink
on a dustless, ethereal white sheet.