The Marks Upon The Wall

With brush in hand — a room to paint —
Briefly I did hesitate
To see inscribed with childish scrawl,
Some penciled marks upon a wall.

And though my strokes removed each trace,
From my mind was not erased
The child who made them, grown today,
But in those marks was still at play.

As precious mem'ries flooded by,
Each relived in my mind's eye,
It seemed to me that after all,
We each leave marks upon some wall.

When my life's canvas is wiped clean —
My time here then but a dream —
Will I have left some worthy marks
Upon the walls of others' hearts?

Copyright 1996 James McAlister

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