One day, when I’m old
And the skin on my hands
Is thin and dark with bruises,
Like burnt paper.
When I look back
on my legacy
Will I be remembered,
for my friends
Or my vendettas?
What will my legacy be?
An aggregation
of meaningless treasure
Or commemoration,
Of treasured times?

Tightly woven threads
Knots of family and friends
Frayed towards the ends

It’s easy to see the enemy within
In your silver mirrored reflection
poisoned tendrils reveal paper skin
That’s apparent upon inspection.

I used to pray
For the typical things.
Serenity, peace, equality,
the health of a sick loved one.
But then I noticed no one ever answered.
Not mine anyway.
But I see the types prayers that are,
In the savage proclamations of the
….Faithful.
And I realize why
I used to pray

We can smell the smoke
And we can see the fire
Then we start to choke,
While we stoke the pyre.

I ponder as I look at this photograph,
This odd sense of sadness and loss.
I see it there, in my frozen laugh
Parts of myself in the framed semigloss.

Pictures that capture the profound moments
Filled with the joys and sadness of life.
Faces and places that no longer know us,
Locked in memories and flashes of light.

Each paper window shows pieces I left.
The smell of Christmas chestnuts in Rome,
A patio view of the Kenyan sunset,
Or the hum of jet engines heading home.

Like puzzle fragments thrown on the floor,
An entire life scattered so wide,
Completing a picture I can’t hope to restore
In jagged pieces that prove I’m alive.

Such is the toll expensed with each day,
In each memory we capture is a gift,
And tomorrow should feel the loss of today,
In faded photos that evidence we lived.