Pictures MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   Relatives grinning down at me,

From their pristine images

in plastic frames.

Are they dead?

Or are they living?

Their mocking eyes,

Echoing thoughts of yesteryear.

Some crying to be released

from some awful, self-made prison.

Others simply showing a vacant stare,

One of quiet desperation.

All I have to hold

Are these photographs,

these images,

these neat little packages,

of what people once were.

The smile of a second,

Preserved for eternity,

Is all I have to love.

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