The longer I live, the more like a dream the past becomes.
I look at what were once the looming figures of my childhood,
and they seem shrouded in mist; the mist is kind to them; it softens them;
their bright outlines are hidden; the light has changed;
it is as if, relieved of their bodies, I have been given their souls.
October 7, 2019. Evening.
Canvas 1,040 — September 28, 2017
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Categories: Drawings, New Poems & Pieces, Recently Banned Literature
William Michaelian 