There are dreams
On emptying streets
Of a city
Where the muse
Has faltered

And faded brick
Under streetlights
Turned her murals
Instead
Into walls

Which warn each day
Needing grace
And color
Like sun
Missing seasons

For one last soul’s
True expression
Among voices
Failed
Growing up –

Those reasons lost
Seeking faith
Or perhaps
That hand
Holding palettes

Still splattered by hues
Spilling purpose
Drawing signs
Our God
Never shows

With prayers intent
Through release
Such ecstatic
Belief
Once depicted

Over altars found
Almost anyplace
If their worship
Remains
Wasting time

Letting fantasy
Writing new rules
Prove how stories
Alone
Utter meaning

Speaking tongues
Since brushes
Will wander
If inspired again
While we paint.

• J. Pigno