The Sprigs and Spirit of Sistine -8

Transfixed by the thunderstorm of raining thorns I taste the violet vapor that rises as smooth spirit while my sensitive gaze garners generations of grief, for those that follow the Savior must suffer like the Savior and so they shall, feel the iron of violent institutions their sacrifice will be spectacular amid emperors and paupers alike, on my seat of Delphic dreams divine light washes my fertile face blond tresses wave from under the hood of my cobalt cloak, my lap draped in glowing gold, I hold unborn history in my hand, my cherubs exhaust themselves on the years foreshadowed... J.A.B.