Under Glass, Sepia

Under Glass, Sepia

Bound in leather, volumes linger on the walls,
Scribbled, flooded, and annotated, lining breaks,
Lost and confused, Beauty, thought crawls,
Try to spare the lash of your tongue; my eyes only take.
Our memory locked in silver frame resides,
Smiles lie still imprisoned on faces sepia,
Colors leach from imprisonment; chemical hides.
Sunlight glimmers from hope, winter nostalgia.
Never reconciled have we ever tried to be,
Neither missive nor epistle ever have we sent;
And regrets are easier for fools wishing for free.
Still there has been no sin, so shall I not repent.
    Yet thought slinks back, in pain and meant to rend:
    If only my eyes could clear, this light would never end.

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3 responses to “Under Glass, Sepia

  1. Is there a name for the special brand of nostalgia that reopens wounds for examination, if only to allow for us to see how much we've healed since?

  2. Beautiful piece of writing

  3. Groove, I wish there were, but I don't think there is. Add it to the list of new words we need in the English language.Madgoldfish, thanks for the comment. I truly appreciate it.

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