I
The seven unexplained figures
Stand (like raiser blade in skin)
Out from the paint splattered canvas...
Wrapped in wool unwound from Asian goats...

II
The landscape of cascading brush stokes...
A fog of grass and blurred foliage
Weaves around the pale faced girls,
Wrapped all in shawl and mystery...
Which feels some what like silent exodus...
Intertwined with Gypsy like nomadic beauty...
Is this folklore or only a heart sick mind trick???
I don't know... But I fear the seven girls are the ghosts
Of belief, trust, conviction, loyalty, allegiance, concern and faith...

III
Murals of hope migrating to some other mind???
But just as the cashmere drapes these pure faced flames-
I will forever after cleaning to these conviction...
Even if they are merely ghosts of the paste
That has held me and humanity together
Ever since we slipped off the Potter's wheel...
Still wet from some invisible hand
That molded us, saturated us with liquid
And filled our lungs with mixed gases
Which set burning a flame that burns
With deep feeling and an essential immortal core...