The Picture

The Picture

 

On a dusty shelf,

is a picture that is torn

It stood out in pure darkness

A picture to be born

His and her face,

and nothing more

It made my face frown,

and my own heart sore

If only they could,

tell me why

Why I felt the urge,

to sit and cry

A memory put to shame?

Or something far worse?

A picture in the frame,

that made my voice go hoarse

Was this what I wanted,

for my family to display?

Because all I see now,

is twenty years in my way

And it still hurts,

to see her smile

As the picture will go up in flames,

and burn for awhile.