Years have sliced me
Into little squares.
Flat, shiny jewels
So exact and so still
Quaint, noiseless frames
Captured and hoarded
To fill my book.
It is a known fact
That people have traded everything
For just about anything
But I have never known anyone
Give up photos for something else.
Life in a capsule
Some bitter, some limited
Others contained and coated
With saccharine smiles.
It really depends on
How one wants to be remembered.
They say there comes a time
When one questions and despairs,
Like asking a prestidigitator
To pull out a rabbit from a hat
Or to agitate ancient moss at the bottom
Of a pond. Anything.
When I, a lover of words
Could never make heads nor tails
Out of rhymes
That used to give me chills.
Baby pictures seem to be a favorite.
The first smile, the teeth nonexistent and guilt free.
The wedding picture, execution style.
A façade, bricked off by the layer of lies
We try so hard to believe.
We bleach everything
From pillows to blankets,
Repair the damage good as new
Iron the edges (take no hostages!)
There’s nothing we can’t do
To make everything perfect in a photo.
After all, it’s just about lighting.
At night I’d flip
Through my treasure
Eyes growing sharper
Memory growing dim
The sharp edges cutting my finger
Until it bleeds.
Shared with
Real Toads. Hello poets!
