I am small in a world of thought
Much larger than myself
Tombstones mark the graves of brave young soldiers
Who have fought hard to gain ground in my head

Trenches of death, where I seldom go
To remind me where I’ve been

And someone holds up a torch
Gazing into my empty sockets
Perhaps to kiss my past
Or unlock the secrets there in

So cold at times the days do seem
But it wasn’t I who painted much
The forgotten colors, unstirred, remain stale
And closets full of unused brushes
Is on today’s menu still

Is it she? She you ask? Of course she!
There is always a she!
But alas it is not her, for she is not she
She is only her

© 9/19/1996
William Grant Preston

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