Made In China

I see a savior everywhere, I see a prophet everyday, shining purple through the faces of Teachers, Stockmen, Welders, Prostitutes. Those halogens shine, pilot lights burning bright in Cyan, Magenta, Hunter green and Mauve, stained-glass saints made free from that flat and veined dimension. Those are Figurines, translucent they bear before them brushes and cisterns filled with lamb's blood, marking the houses of the unlucky as they pass- (they walk on hallowed ground not a place for me they walk with heads held high eyes up to the sky contemplating visions I am not blessed enough to see) Hushed voices in oaken pews speak litany and mumble Hymn, while doomed players act out the stations of the cross within the Lavish temple. Ah! see this rimmed with gold and platinum: A chorus made for angles of war and angles of peace rides upon the heavy air, gliding upwards from the ladies choir. I suspect that if Gabriel or Michael were to lend an ear and hear them, tears would pour out from the heavens, covering the world in a second flood, and Once again, our bastion of hope would land on Ararat, but this time it would be a super-tanker.