I see my shadow on the pillow
like a lover's profile in the night
creeping ever closer
Like the impending dawn
They've passed through my life
little bits of soul
Fluttering softly over my head
I wonder where each is going to
They creep through my memory
Somehow leaving marks
Which are yet unseen
by the outside world
Not unlike the silent passing of seasons
Here, locked in memory's embrace,
I am warm and safe again
the remembrance of past
and tentative future caress me tonight.
Butterflies through my window and out
I wonder to myself
lost in the reverie here,now,
when one will light for good.
We work in the Dark; we give what we have. Our Doubt is our passion- our passion is our task, and the rest is the madness of art. -Henry James
