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Treasures I thought were mine,
I was hoping i was the only one who saw them.
My hunger for only the finest,
only the purest is hidden.
The portrait that I have drawn,
strictly abstract from everyone else.
It is the same,
but i hold it higher, closer to me.
This made up room,
nothing but empty space now.
Found and sent far away,
no chance of recovery.
No recovery for me,
It has come and gone,
expecting something not there.
The water i draw from has run out.
What will I do for the next 50 years,
I pander in my heart.
Michael Poston
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