A canvas sits untouched, unveiled
lonely and forgotten, memories fade...

Lets get one thing clear
to critique is not to criticize...

Your body aches my mind,
gently and violently...

In the mountains,
in a far away land...

I have elegance and charm.
I am naturally kind, very gentle...

Old lady Mrs. Maple always did the
right thing...

The Land is dark
filled with death...

Way back when,
I was a child...

She sat on the bench letting the breeze flow by,
Her hair swept away like a feather in the sky...

A petite old women lived in
the country alone...

I was nestled so
comfortably...

I walked by the mantle
above it a mirror...