She arrives as lifes road ends. Looking back she sees naught of herself. Looking back she sees nothing of her own dreams. Nothing of her self in her own days. Nothing of her self in her own life. Nothing of her self in the hours spent at morn; hours spent at noon; hours spent at moon.
looking back she is saddened
saddened that her days were not filled with her
saddened that her days were not her thoughts
not her words
not her dreams
not her passions
not her hours
not her minutes
not her days
days of other peoples dreams and other peoples passions and other peoples words
days that were never hers
our days our not ourselves she says
nor should they ever be
for life is made of more than I
not you nor me but we
she feels a slice of comfort
knowing days were never hers
to whom belong
maybe time
we cannot say for sure
wishing still an invitation
inside her own days more
proof of presence where she tread
what is left . . . . her lore
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