A memory,
At one point so faint,
And far away.
Waiting for a time,
to come out,
on a special day.
Stale pictures of a loved one,
Vanish beneath your eyes,
Almost like they were never there,
Stolen with out a compromise.
Gray pictures smudged corners,
Burnt edges,
Of a book shelf,
And its ledges.
You hold on to all them pictures,
holding on for dear life,
Last thoughts and memories,
Watching them with there knives.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem