Two porous cakes of charcoal, a putty eraser, a graphite lead — white paper; soiled and crumpled; a sturdy plyboard — are all he has, and all he needs.
The night is woven from unfurled shadows — blotches of white on a stricken tree. The house clings to a crumbling rock, harbouring the half-torn lives it breeds.
Lord, I’m the house. I’m the lead, the frayed lives, the stricken tree — A fragile artwork of Your being. Complete me. Complete me.
No comments:
Post a Comment