His Canvas, His Clay

(The Crank and his muse)

His Canvas, His Clay
 
Art, as you say, is Love

Love, as I know thou art.

We are only beings of His making

splashed, spattered, cross hatched.

Love, pours forth in bright red

our sins etched in flowing blood;

Tones of Grey, splashes of Blue,

spaces of White, hurt and Hue.

Formed with a burst of light

Light, we all come from.

A mold, spinning fast on a wheel

cut through in shapes by his fingers.

We become flowers of many patterns

God and Goddesses, of fear and love;

Basked in the Sunlight, baked in Earth,

our lifeless expressions of a million joy's worth.

::Vibin Issac::