Ink fades and paper yellows
under a dusty sun beam
peeking through the crack
upstairs.
Oh you beautiful hidden,
you forgotten sweet,
whose paint chips as
it were the holy meal again.
Where would we look
so long after passed
the hand of your creation?
Will we remember?
Where among the tangled vines
and lengthened shadows,
forgotten and lost in the sands
of an hourglass long due
to be turned,
might there be a whisper,
of what was?
Will He find you
with a grin
as He locks up,
one final time,
when the stars lie down
to sleep?
All paint chips,
and all ink fades with tears,
with laughter.