A Saintess-stained—upon a layered pane
set before priory and austere eyes:
the shallow-sighted hallow marks the smile
in painted calm, but not tempest-inside.
Somber-sister, holy in her ache—
Eternal sings hymn-internal psalm,
“Onerous, is the caring heart.
Expects excuse, does the perspicacious mind”.
My dear,
you are unfair to self.
They see the pane on-surface;
You, the pane behind.
-
Is a picture, perfect—
Worthy, worth thee worship?
Lines, shapes: proportional, aligned?
No.
Divinity is found
In
Handmade brush,
in trembled hand;
As weeping,
Grinning—thoughts
Seep to create
And nurture life
Like rain to grass-strewn-soil;
It lives where worlds-apart entwine and meet;
Converge, collide, crash
And, in their meeting, change:
where sea meets shore and salt remakes the land—
No, my dear—
Divinity is found
In perfect-imperfections,
to discerning crowd.
In challenges, overcome.
Not in lacking/forestalled steps,
Not in angled-shapes,
nor paint
Beyond the bounds.
There is no truth
In easy proofs; “Is a replaced street-sign, ‘art’?”
Only the crazy-stupid; Brave,
Fumble charge—against the dark.
Would they, so soon,
Return to feet,
If divide between “life and meaning”,
Necessarily ended in state of despaired-stark?
Probably not…
So,
Let the inorganic window-
keep its lines.
Through chapped-chapeled, colored-fracture,
let your trying-genius shine.
And when despair
Brings forth, ‘demure’,
Keep an origin-unique, in mind
For it is
Within the “blur”;
Wherein meaning is refined,
Where one finds comforted faith,
In the courageous steps
Of heartfelt-thought, divine.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 4:53 AM UTC
A Saintess-stained—upon a layered pane
set before priory and austere eyes:
the shallow-sighted hallow marks the smile
in painted calm, but not tempest-inside.
Somber-sister, holy in her ache—
Eternal sings hymn-internal psalm,
“Onerous, is the caring heart.
Expects excuse, does the perspicacious mind”.
My dear,
you are unfair to self.
They see the pane on-surface;
You, the pane behind.
-
Is a picture, perfect—
Worthy, worth thee worship?
Lines, shapes: proportional, aligned?
No.
Divinity is found
In
Handmade brush,
in trembled hand;
As weeping,
Grinning—thoughts
Seep to create
And nurture life
Like rain to grass-strewn-soil;
It lives where worlds-apart entwine and meet;
Converge, collide, crash
And, in their meeting, change:
where sea meets shore and salt remakes the land—
No, my dear—
Divinity is found
In perfect-imperfections,
to discerning crowd.
In challenges, overcome.
Not in lacking/forestalled steps,
Not in angled-shapes,
nor paint
Beyond the bounds.
There is no truth
In easy proofs; “Is a replaced street-sign, ‘art’?”
Only the crazy-stupid; Brave,
Fumble charge—against the dark.
Would they, so soon,
Return to feet,
If divide between “life and meaning”,
Necessarily ended in state of despaired-stark?
Probably not…
So,
Let the inorganic window-
keep its lines.
Through chapped-chapeled, colored-fracture,
let your trying-genius shine.
And when despair
Brings forth, ‘demure’,
Keep an origin-unique, in mind
For it is
Within the “blur”;
Wherein meaning is refined,
Where one finds comforted faith,
In the courageous steps
Of heartfelt-thought, divine.
