Radiant slats of gold
on that ageless, painted wall of old.
The paper told me to go,
so I left not too long ago.
Tales of sadnesses untold
are the source of all this bitter cold.
I buried all that I know
under her heavy blanket of snow.
They say that she broke the mold
when they cast her into the fold.
Now all that I've got to show
for these sudden thirty years in tow,
is a handful of memories I hold.
Everything else has long been sold.
Something, somethings, some things grow.
What they are, I just don't know.