draped in warm shadows, a silhouette of a nun
not the face of man nor the face of the sun
but a yellow tinted dawn yanked up by God's own hand
we see the morning coming but we still don't understand
the sanctity reigning on church steps as they crack
is the same sanctity shining on the mad man's back
that will still lead him to a place he never really knows
carrying him further than death still breathing as he goes