Doorways

This is everything I am,
and all I have done.

What is a life but a line upon which we are a travelling speck.
We draw these.
For all of my life I have strove to create.
Filled with music, visions, words, concepts,
ever battling to wrestle these monsters into a reality to share,
ever pressed for time, peace, money,
always a struggle, results always inferior to my ability,
and now I am old and poor and alone.

I look up, with tired eyes at my paintings, my music, my poems,
the wall of this once-childhood room.
My work looks back,
and I feel loved.

This is everything I am,
and all I have done.

I make a mark, and walk on to yet greater ground.
I have no other purpose.