Chapel of St. Francis

Oh thou tattered robe. Lying folded neatly by the cross. Thou dost cry and yearn for loss of thy master. He is no more. Immortalized, canonized in rapture. Doves so love his likeness, the cold statue calls and they answer. Cooing and preening their feathers in vain contradiction to his teachings. Attaining solace by placing their nests within the cold likeness of St. Francis. As thou pass him to the rose garden, before the chapel, See him in thy minds eye. Fleeing from temptation, ordering redemption, cast himself, naked amongst the rose. The martyrs blood flowing red, and warm, which forever removed their thorn. For Brian’s Ekphrasis contest