by Nick Gisburne
You must not lay a finger on her face
The skin could never tolerate your touch
A momentary movement, out of place
Would modify the mystery too much
Her portrait was presented to the gods
With all the lavish fanfare of the age
Surviving their demise, beyond the odds
Her miracle may never disengage
For when the reign of pagan prophets fell
And every true immortal lost its might
They joined to save the picture with a spell
Protecting it with love and lore and light
The souls of those who touch her still survive
They scream inside the canvas, locked, alive
