walks in wariness;
shrouds watchful eyes.
echoing . . . echoing . . . echoing.
muted flame, flickering.
shadows slide on walls,
smells of dust,
waiting for a reason to revive.
looks for one to trust,
someone to sweep away the cobwebs
that have overgrown the door.
someone who will touch her lips,
revive her heart,
set her free.
someone of a myth.
Oh, and once again -- I'm not an artist . . . these are my words, but the drawing's not mine.