If life is a painting, our hands hold the brushes
that portray each day in blotched drabs or pastels,
capturing our reaction to the trauma that crushes
or energizes the mindset that miasma dispels.
If life is a sculpture, excluding those chisels
that chip off excesses disfiguring the form
which all the world sees, we'll pray from blank missals,
for beauty's perfection, to the god of the norm.
If life is a highway one destination its end,
we travel in transport that disdains steering wheels,
observing the scenery, uncaring what we spend,
assured the all important is enjoying how it feels.
If life is a testament etched on heaven's wall
act by act, by angel stylo the tale inscribed,
no heroic feat even Michael would enthrall
where mortals have deeply of life's cup imbibed.
If life is a collage of paper, cloth and wood
that fate fools at splattering man's canvass on a whim,
the hunger for order, self-esteem and for good
makes no sense, till concluded it emanates from Him.