It is my turn to dress up
in a golden forlorn,
a shine of lies that defy the adage
the clothes make the man.
I constantly snap fireworks
from my fingers
and the crowd mistakes me
for a fevered witch.
I desire them to see the green day beautiful,
not as a contiguous series of vicious sneezes.
I yearn for them to experience tranquil peace
throughout their bones and sinew.
Most creative people I know
assemble their own definition of grace.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney