On haunting, starry nights in Bethlehem,
Plucking out an eye, rather than an ear--
Prophets, priests, and poets attest their craft.
But some, ensnared by patterns and pictures
Of airy canvass, instead seek palettes
Divinely gripped with pastel-plastered hands.
In vistas beneath the Arc de Triomphe
Of the mind, there a forgotten mystic
Applies a glimpse of passion by his brush:
Some speck of love and trauma depicts the
Highest joy in this transitory world--
That change is the one medium of love.
The brush flickers, embers burning boldly.
Their glow reveals an ever hidden spark
Which burns in those whose darkness lights the sky.