Oh, angel from the realms of glory
hovering above the stormy sepia sea
by the sleeping sepia city, little boxes stacked
like barnacles clinging to life on the rocks
of ages past, worthy of slight renaissance
your sepia radiance hidden like God's
sun when clouds linger cumulonimbus
with no celestial camera obscura needed
for the story told is ages old of carrying
the sepia hopes and bones of the broken
the daydreams of the downtrodden
higher and higher to light everlasting
until a seventeen sailed ship looks tiny
like a child's red toy boat floating on a pond or
a dusty wooden model never to rock gently
in the sepia bay between the sepia rocks