3 March 2006
When I sit quietly
My life opens up
Like so many pages of a book
The pages do not fit
From here to there
But I know they are all mine.
Some are boldly writ' upon
In brightly colored ink
While most are simply penciled in
Crossed out, erased or written over
Though some thoughts may be
None are ever truly changed, or forgotten
Though things of beauty all around
May be, they are never to be seen.
My self denial censors all true goodness.