Written by: Deb Wilson

In dreams far-flung with cloudy paints
I watch the sinners march as saints.

The palette dimmed and turned to gray
reflects the words I long to say.

For memories too raw to feel
and pain more than such art can heal.

I'll dip into my pot of gold
for circumstance thus makes me bold.

Sheer tapestry beyond the fate
of reason that's been forced to wait.

Dispirited and somewhat plain
these days are colored deep in rain.

Yet tides wash in on tenuous hopes
and swim me past these slippery slopes

Closing the walls inside my room
with willful disregard for doom.