Only Her

Only Her

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

Grant's Rants - Poetry