The question of faith, blows over your grave
But how can it be thus so
And seek though you will, the roads are all closed
And there’s nowhere else now to go
Belief it has no dimension
And belief it has no weight
While the winds of change, blow heavy and cold
Mean the answers, all come too late
The signs are there to be read now
A cross in paint on the door
My mind and my thoughts, torn asunder
There’s a Blood Red Rose on the floor
Don’t speak to me in tongues now
And don’t quote From the Book of the Dead
There is little more, to be written here
And sadly even less to be said.
Paintings and poetry. 