drowned into the shelf of a thousand home
seeks its way out.
The pictures flare out,
unleashing the little flame
thats been dying to lit.
Pictures one by one,
each missing in action
lost inside a puddle of dark, sticky mud.
They hold something,
someone.
I see people standing in the frame.
Smiling,
Smiling so widely.
Wide enough to swoon the swans to the dirtiest lake.
Wide enough to make a filthy old man turn into a beggar.
Wide enough to make people stop and stare,
and maybe admire for a second or two.
As a motherly hand reaches over and
grab each picture
it lets out a sigh.
Having framed the remains,
we watch as the motherly hand unfolds the final, flaring puzzles that return from its journey,
adding old colours back into her flavourless life.
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