With people
The only question that matters
What else can there be
Besides our feeble perceptions
Asking us
What I am to you,
And
What are you to me?

I Ponder the words
     Oher writers have wrote,
To speak volumes in syllables
Understand feelings in notes

I wonder can I compare
To the madness of Poe
Share the wonder of Silverstein,
Shelley's monstrous despair,
Or the screams of Van Gogh?

Can I write myself Treetops  
Frost's trails traveled by
Could I create my own Iliad
Command with Tennyson  
Or on Stoker's bat wings rise,

I am no one too many
Someone too few,
Though my voice is unheard
       Painful my artform,
Enduring shall try
Paint pattern and scribe
My spark in the darkness
The dream I'll pursue.

Ghost left the shell.
Years ago.

Hardly knew it at first.

Gradually.

Colors muted. Sounds dulled.
Constant ringing in my ears
replaced the hum of mind.

But later, when I died.

Then I realized.



I never lived.

One day, in my travels, I found a monument to the forgotten.

I found footprints there, and though they fit my feet, I had no memory of being there before.

One side of the monument was blank, full of words that could not be read.

One side was burnt, and ashes twisted in the mourning breeze.

One side was covered with a sheet.

One side towered high, yet was gone before I fully looked away.

And all around, footprints.

All of them mine.