My Sistine Chapel
My dream promised that someone else would surrender to the Sistine Chapel. Upon such revelation, at last, my hands quivered with salvation and grace. I saw no loss; I have already felt too much. Perhaps, this would matter so little as my hands were on the verge of a great debilitation. I was to become a star- I was sold, but I have never seen a star so dull. I found an even greater loss; a loss that surpasses my back and restrained eye. I worked for a God that took pearls and gold from my flowing ichor and left me in this desolate land.
In this dream of mine, I heard no more of what I had crucified myself for. The pope had died, and so my time extended. My vision was still blurry, and I could not gaze too long at the sun. The damage done was enough, and the walls of the chapel trembled as the altar transformed into a gurney. Torn between damnation and salvation, my path paved with lawlessness. The choir cursed my living, breathing body, but never my soul. Never out of empathy, but out of pity, eminence, and destitution.
I gave my hand away; I was not created for this. My fingertips had not bestowed a colorless white upon my chapel, and for that, my life should not be tied to a plain exterior, where my interior work is to be overlooked. I am not a painter; I have sculpted and molded clay as I breathed life into them. Yet, my maker took my work and granted himself my gifted powers. Taken by the immense force his hands had stolen from mine, he could not work with what he had not been born with overnight. Glutted with envy, he enslaved a master.
Shortly enough, no one dared to endow their touch upon my brush. The ceiling infected with morbidness; the decaying religion I presented on the walls fell apart. I tried to paint over and over again, but the soaked colors were already planning to elope. Suddenly, Christ became the fallen Morningstar. If these walls could talk, they would revile the day God held jealousy over me. For without him, they would have not been dishonored to see my dire presence. It is a first time, I assume, that you hear of an abandoned chapel.
My brush pleads for desertion
For I am not their maker
I am not their painter
I am merely a player
A religious pawn
Overburdened
My back arched like a trail tree
I bore no place to worship
My eyes dripping blood
I reeked of impurity
I became one with the hospital bed
A hole dug itself
Around the spot my body conquered
Your corpus rotted as I held your face close to mine
I promised I would follow
Even as the bullet inside you bled
I slept beside you as your soul fled
Out into nothingness
I painted and repainted years later
But I have to escape
I am destined to follow
You
Underestimated
Me
My witness is God
He
Overestimated
Me.
