It doesn't create you,
So I have learned,
The small gesture,
Of damage and retribution,
The walls can claim,
To you the keeper of continuous thought,
And mere ideals of fancy.
The pages of life,
For strangers comfort and seek age,
It is strati to often told,
In the travel of ones slumber,
And reminders of graven.
Where is now,
Small child of hope and Juvenal,
Taken from in the brittle bones,
Of the specter of age and density,
Taken the life from a poet's parasol,
And told her the shade,
Was the shadow of God.