Flipping through
the frosted
photograph album,
in the library of time.
I pour over
the frozen moments.
Sculptured
into greyscale
ice castles
of the mind.
Steam rises from
slowly thawing
shards of time.
Condensation trickles down
the walls it scaled behind.
Brittle icy insights.
I should be delighting
over the contents
of this book palace,
so enlightening,
but the images seen
only make me feel glum.
A lone night. A fear-stained pillow.
A tear shaped icicle in a frozen lake.
All these different fragments, I'm numb.
Brain feels like it is
lost amongst a monumental,
continent sized forest of trees.
These
glimmering moments of boredom.
A frieze of discarded memories.
Blurred, camera shaking,
thumb covering lens, obscuring everything
I see on the pages, scenery
with me nowhere to be seen.
Pity parties in my own room,
whilst everyone else has moved on,
to some fancy club, with gilded golden beams.
I see dreams being lived,
from deep within my nightmare crypt.
I see a man
looking in windows at the world inside,
turn and fade into the inky night
in a single stride
I should have paid fate
the premium,
Then I’d see more than
these aching fields of tedium,
these four wall conundrums,
The puzzled look of someone
lost, out of touch.
Who hasn't moved an inch,
yet still the world somehow feels
it's shifting ever out of his reach.
And on the last page,
I see sunlight,
as the greyscale photographs
become vibrant and bright.
A grimace becomes a grin.
An ache becomes joyous tingles again,
rain becomes soothing,
no longer grey and draining,
and though the page is aging,
inside, the images seem young again.
Refreshed as the colour seeps in.
Thanks for reading
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