A collection of souls
Laced the halls
The curators abode
Tamed and pleasant
The trophies of ages past
Belonging no longer to the Artist's fashion
Now on exhibition for public viewing
At twilight however
The lost talent belonged to non other
Than the man in charge of their care
The watermarks at the bottom of the page
His manuscript written in his own manner
A museum of the most wonderful collections
Crystallized and sapping the strength of form
Leaving the moment to the amber gaze of his eyes
Bemused at his collectivist intelligence
Each of every piece restoring his visage
As each night time stroll equated the mirage
One thousand lands calling each his home
Recalling the adventures buried with bone
Although many would pass through these gates in due time
Sultry chance relinquished the hold on his mind.
Copyright, 2010, Christopher Baird--all rights reserved.
Contact me for reprint/posting permission.
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