#sepia
Waves of sadness as you wave in my direction. I see you go, I watch you leave. Just as the seasons appear and dispose of me. We take turns walking away, from people we never talked to. Wondering why it hurts the same. Hating that it hurts as all of these people go. Sudden realisation hit us one by one. As we wonder, and walk, and wonder around all the topics we may have avoided. The thoughts we’re apparently devoid of. Introspect, retrospect, dissect ourselves in this critical moment. Nostalgia knocking us over making us think and making us feel, for once. A remarkable feat, it must be applauded. Ovation, overjoy, overwhelm. Over this. Over them. Over it. Time moving so agonisingly slowly, wishing away the years. Needing to escape, yet wanting to eternalise the way they make me feel. Nothing lasts forever. Maybe you should’ve, yet you didn’t. Now you’re all that’s left tell me how it feels. It doesn’t feel good, it doesn’t even seem right. Yet it’s a must and a miss you. The question has to be asked: why are you crying now? After all these months, why are you letting it hit now? Stay strong, be strong, be you. Be fearless and young. The golden years fade away into shades of blue and black skies. I wish you all well, and a happy birthday. Get well soon, get there soon. It’s all getting to me too soon. It’s too soon. How are we already here? We were all the way over there yesterday. Faces flash and second pass by with smiles. Frowning back, the question must be asked, why are you so sad?
Jul 22, 2022
Jul 22, 2022 at 5:51 PM UTC
"hello, what is your name?"
the familiar vibration in my ears
that creeps its way into my blood
a buzz
a hum
constant
beneath my skin
when days were louder
like the crash of pots and pans
in my grandmother's house
where the ceiling was littered with butterflies
like the static from empty radio stations
akin to that of crunching snow
and the harsh grating of metal
they are the memories dipped in sepia
and overexposed flashes of light
dripping as they walk on
leaving footprints
a silhouette
it is the fear of our wrinkling hands that drive us closer to the edge
to the end
as the sun and moon rewind in a never ending cycle
a loop
right before a leap of faith
towards that never ending youth
the desperate sliver of summer at the end of a blurry december's haze
when nothing is recognisable
a restart
"hello, what is your name?"
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 12:56 AM UTC
the paper, torn
old garments, worn
faces, forlorn
ancestors, born
towns, dust
forbidden, lust
crime, just
metal, rust
these days were sepia
like everything around
the trees, the grass, the lovers
even the cobbled ground
trapped in torn parchment
in a long forgotten attic
in a colorful world
more theatrical, dramatic
sepia, sepia, sepia
and only still
forgotten, denied
only a cabinet to fill
and soon, you and I too
sepia will take
our faces drained of color
nothing left to make.
May 13, 2019
May 13, 2019 at 1:03 PM UTC
Glimpses of the past
captured in shots.
Much to relish and savour.
Much to learn from.
But they flash by
all too quickly.
If I could,
these still frames
I’d tessellate haphazardly;
for they never came in sequence.
Then I’d pan out to see
a view of a wall...
Towering to the heavens
as high as my vision could reach,
spanning the horizon
as far as my head could turn.
I peer
but with naked eyes,
a busy mosaic
of my history
told in sepia.
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 2:23 PM UTC
Colors, have ways of making us soar,
or fall.......they make us buoy...
they, too, can divide and isolate...
long ago, a magazine
was colored and identified for a reason.....
also,
a kind of blue-sy music, upon which i groove,
...was named for the same reason...
.............a magazine..... a music genre,
became instruments...and parts of
dark and golden moments.......recalled
and enjoyed, every now and then...they're
painted.......registered in people's minds....
life is a magazine of stories, of poetry...
life is a jukebox...filled with soundtracks
life is an album...a collection of smiles
...of colorful images and emotions
reddish brown at first...turning yellow brown,
with tinges of taupe.......mottled through the years,
turning...into fading shades of sepia...
i refuse my late summer moments on earth
............to be done in Grisaille,
painted, only in tones of grey and dark green...
...it is written...one day, life would be hued with
subdued colors...the blues, silvers and grays,
...........will be cold as winter...
but, until then,
i'd rather be consumed with liveliness
i would adorn my days with peach and lilac
blossoms, hang fuschia pink pennants
on my wall....to brighten my disposition,
i'd practice...play the guitar once again,
i'll wear my ruffled, dappled-purple skirt,
and yellow converse sneakers when i walk on
the pavement....under blue skies that enhance
greens, and gold...colors that breathe existence
transforming weariness to courage...
wherever...whenever, however possible,
i speak, whisper to God words of gratitude,
and endless thanksgiving...i pray for strength.
and acceptance........prepare myself...when,
.....i, too...would face my own moments,
...............of fading sepia.
Sally
Copyright August 6, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Aug 5, 2017
Aug 5, 2017 at 10:34 PM UTC
POSTCARD TO A POET
I don't want to write it down.
I don't want to give those thoughts life form
cause once you put them down on that soft pillow of memory….
Once you do that,
It becomes truth!
The one that haunts you....
The one that comes in your dreams
The truth that never knew lie-if.
You become its slave,
You share your lunch with it.
You just dream about that moment trapped on paper
that moment you decided
to give your thoughts wings to eternity.
Your words -
your destiny,
yet even sworn enemy.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 3:35 PM UTC
Have I captured your soul?
Your tone sepia as if nostalgic
A memory a place held in my heart
Can I hold your words a little closer
They feed me in the dark dreary night
Sometimes your words are as colourful as a child's painting
There's no faking sincerity
Your words cast a rainbow over me.
Oct 10, 2016
Oct 10, 2016 at 7:16 AM UTC
the world is mind numbingly quiet
the streets drenched in nostalgic sepia,
the kind that ushers you into a movie moment reeling in
under the notes of a power ballad
and all of a sudden you just feel
alive but detached from your life.
your body is immobile in a moving vehicle,
your brain takes pictures
of the people that is around you,
and you realize that their life
is not yours.
they are under impressions of sunrises
and the shading of trees in the summer's sleep,
while you exist
because of the way the street appears
at night beneath the empty moon.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC
He's looking at me again.
Eyes fixed like he was insane.
Clay pipe propped on lips, pondering,
seriously sepia wondering.
No name on the severe brown frame.
He stares but doesn't see me.
I don't see him for what he was.
I see a fictional facsimile,
conflation of another's fantasies
- comic working class
- salt of the Earth
- his own man
- hero or Caliban.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
A memory so old, turned to sepia
From the pigmentation of Time
Losing all defining boundaries
As the album pages become dog eared
Due to long years of reminiscing
The moments shared together
A happy snapshot, now fading away
Can’t recall anymore on introspection
The album full of memories
Black and white turns to sepia
And ravages of time discolors
Once colorful moments
Captured only in black and white
© Amitav (Radiance)
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 10:25 AM UTC
Church bells.
That's my first memory.
Waking up to the sound of church bells
with a rawness in my throat
and stiffness in my cheeks
that could only come
from crying myself to sleep the night before
The sun is leaking through the window binds,
painting the entire room this muted sepia
corraling much of the sunlight into a few distilled beams
that spotlight dust and dead skin
waltzing in the air
I haven't the faintest clue about what
or why I'd been crying -
just laying there
overwhelmed with great relief
like a mausoleum was lifted from my chest
and I was taking my first breath in months
I want to say it was a Sunday
I always want to say it with conviction
but that might just be the church bells
which I've heard
ring every day
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Remember…
When we had too much time on our hands
yet never ran out of things to say.
When we thought we knew everything,
when every path was the right way.
Silences used to be complete;
silver nights after a sparkling day.
Something about the days gone by
makes us want to rewind them and replay.
But maybe it is not that simple.
Maybe we are looking back the wrong way.
Maybe it seems easier because we fought
and lived to fight another day.
We can take a stroll down memory lane
but it’s not a worthy place for us to stay.
For nostalgia is a sepia toned b***h
who distracts you as today slips away.
Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 11:22 AM UTC