This box called life now holds me
Yet in its wake I’m set free
Pictures of music
Temperatures in rhyme
All the smells
Keeping things in time

Door is open
Left wide open
Hoping I will find
Always drifting
Left and slipping
Into it, this is mine

And of the creatures
Low and holding
Sensing my demise
Are cowards lurking
Seek not worthy
Of my souls divide

I capture not a thing
For it the songs we sing
And if we left A breath not kept
Is echo’s ring

© 3/5/2004
William Grant Preston

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