As child I stared at canvas, stone and wood
where nothing was revealed, no sound to hear,
the quiet in the room, the solemn mood:
museums seemed a place of mold and fear.
The cracking of the old gallery floors,
although the rooms were empty but of me,
the brutal slamming of unopened doors
and paintings that showed more than I could see.
Perhaps I was too young to grasp the art
but beautiful those memories still feel
of antique buildings, silent days alone.
I keep the memoirs housing in my heart
where no decision stands of what is real
as every art is truth within its own.