I am a gallery, long floored and wide brimmed
no footsteps from tourists have padded these halls,
signs suggesting an escape from my reality are nonexistent.
these white-washed walls stand at attention
for my eyes only; examining the lives I lived
many moons before.
The doors are barred, blockading the outside world:
these halls will only host echoes and silent smiles,
where my artwork patiently ages …
I must peruse this museum of life alone.

ash, fir, and pine,
framed in symmetrical rows,
molded and carved between my own hands
until I thought them fine for such golden moments.
beneath each story, a silver plaque lays its head,
with names etched into them like quill on parchment.
these were the souls and bright eyes
I gave legendary status to;
for once upon a time, they were larger than life
when my own was full of strife.

My Spanish rogue, brighter…