Life had been a picture box
Wherein all are painted in monotone
Only what's to be seen are being shown
But go down in mem'ry—rusted love locks.

Everywhere you turn,
the pictures look the same
Still in place as you carelessly aim,
A heart can only discern.

Be it winter, spring, summer or fall,
The external; the internal remains
But a sound, a voice, in my head refrains
Yet again, it's the film's time to roll.

Once, I caught a glimpse of a smile
And wondered what it could be
How can an image look so different to me?
A thought unusually worthwile.

Flowers begun to bloom and blossom
Releasing fireworks into the sky
Could these fingertips reach them if ever I try?
Rainbows cried on a sphere of monochrome.