Sunday, May 1, 2011

Sepia Printed

A wooden frame that rots
Because of the memories it holds
Rusty ironed
Of Stories, you'd once been told.

Black and white glimpses
Of a childhood gone and how
Do you believe in magic, still?
Do you fear the local clown?

For all those years,
You heard fables
Of talking dogs
And nomadic tribes

Did you ever think,
those years too,
Will become but a witch
Teasing you with memories sly?

The wooden frame ,
has more to tell
Unknowingly, decades had passed by
Slowly in the photograph,
You see your grandmother's eyes dry.

A clot in the heart,
as you remember her smile
And the little pranks you played
How she always liked your new sun-dress
Or the way you made your braid.

Through sepia and black and white,
Through childhood and gypsies,
Through fables of nomadic tribes,
You knew you'd lost that innocence, little.


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