In the palette of my own fiction,
Lord, I create a picture,
Whirling in fabrication,
Twisting colours of chaos
In unending disunity –
Formless, multi dimensional,
A mire of uncomplimentary colours
Swallows me in sickly tone.

I am no artist, Lord,
You are my maker;
My picture, the canvas,
Needs the master creator
So the shapes take image, the brush work form,
And there is gentleness in the laying down of colour.