Emma

A painter of religious scenes, she dabs on yellow glaze, a thirty-year-old seraphim, views the work that's honed, never too wise in this game, doubts she'll ever atone, in great nights of dreams, even when life’s the same, it's not what it seems, the canvas lets her roam, a sketch of wooden nails, in many ways she's gone, places she’s never been, lost without a name, like a matchstick in the sea, the work is not her own, the pull of certain days, bright as lighthouse rock, her body aches without relief, sunken eyes are crazed, her mind is never easy, she regards another frame.