I was there.
I saw it happen.
It left a portrait in my mind,
Painted with an artist's brush,
Each stroke awash with vivid
pigment
Placed with knowing, seeing hand,
Affixed on canvas, mounted, framed
And there displayed in muted light
In the museum of my mind.
There to be recalled or recreated
At a moment's notice,
Or somehow quietly creeping,
As I lay sleeping, into fitful
dreams;
Waking me from restlessness,
Denying fond forgetfulness,
Knowing that I must confess,
Bound to be the lone witness.
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