The Sinner, The Sane

Unlike the sane,

They know not how to color within lines.

Unlike the sane,

Their pallet is patient and brush benign.

Our strokes stench of serfdom and applause awaits,

They shed the shackles that posterity dictates.

These sinners,

They set the sparks that burn their skin.

These sinners,

Their skirts are high and their veils are thin,

And we may forfeit brushes abundant,

But colors will spill in merriment petulant.

For creased foreheads paint a canvas pale,

On lengthy labyrinth follow treacherous trail.

Maul the martyr, bruise it blue,

Bruised sky no limit to heresy hue.

Venerate their virtue,

Venerate their vice,

For amidst all folly,

Only they know flight.