Michael Stranka
A Boy in a Pink Skirt
The tender flower of youth
Frozen in time
Placed on stage
For all to adore.
Draped in crimson beauty,
With hair like the flowing sea,
He grasps the Holy Scripture,
Rested on waves of fiery gold
Touched by daisies.
Wisps of spring play at his back
While cool breezes of dusk drift in.
That face, pure as snow,
With eyes of piercing divinity,
Probe the outside world,
Always asking; “Why pink?”
