Salvation

Does every piece of paint
That peruses the scattered minds
Of listeners to the open blue
Of faithfuls to them genius-kind
Have to take so egregious a pull.

Have they grown as trojans
By only fighting through the ranks
Of lesser no-named sussurs
By which the mundane ideates?

While we wake suffering
Through clouds of words alike
Searching wilderness
For the suckling spring,
Might also maybe
Those little hazies
Praying the salvation
Of a page