I walk backward through the halls
of memory
and I find this one connecting thread,
sweet moments stolen with my
perfect muse
writing sonnets from our bed,
now that there's just me and you,
my pen and I,
our muse so unfairly fled,
I hear the whispers of dark misery
calling me in my rest,
insidious in His dark design clawing
at my mind,
but there they are nonetheless sheltered
in my head,
sweet moments stolen in time
that lend flow to my craft,
beauty to my world.
I live for art now I whispered
back
with my memories as my blood
and this flickering pen as my
beating heart,
I live to paint pictures with
these words,
and He wonders at my reasons.
Loneliness..he starts,
nay my brother,
my memory I have for comfort
and my art for motivation,
I breathe,
I write
and with that I've found some
hope.
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