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Pictures
He looks at me through pictures.
Immortalized in time.
His eyes, they tell a story,
immobilized in rhyme.
He doesn’t see through pictures.
Blinded by the flashes.
I see through his burnt façade,
bided by the ashes.
He threw aside the pictures.
Tossed away his past.
He would not admit they,
took away his mask.
He tore up all the pictures.
Ripped from inside out.
He wants to take back what was,
robbed from depressive bouts.
He burned all of the pictures.
Fried old memories.
He rose within the flames,
freed from his disease.
He found copies of the pictures.
He didn’t turn away.
He tried to pass the time by thinking,
heard only words he didn’t say.
He’s looking through the pictures.
Staring back at me.
His emerald eyes are waiting,
smiling for me to see……
(He’s going to be okay.)
