I'm seeing images in the wood-grain of the bookshelf.
Images im keeping to myself.
Images of my life along with wealth,
Images where I don't worry about my health.
The doctors bookshelf is more appealing
Than the books it holds which have the answers.
Why worry about the answers on the pages
When I can forget about it without the help of literary sages?
When the day is done these images are all that is left.
Left up to interpretation of each guest.
Each new guest learning how much is left,
How much it's grown; how much its slept.
In my wood-grain murals I see life with a cure,
A life with new purpose, a life I now yearn,
Away from this life with no purpose,
This life with no cure.
This life that now burns;
A life without results.
