Beloved tools unstirred
They are strangers
Brushes, pencils, pens
Erased from my picture
Daily I glance at them and mutter
'When I have time - another year
Perhaps another life.'
Where did time go?
Drawn away with my breaths?
My heart rigid in a pencil box
My soul embalmed in oils
My body dried like tempura
Smiling weakly like a Madonna
without a Child.