The Photograph

One day,

I’ll be a picture on the wall too.

Probably a smiling one,

Cos that’s what we tend to do,

When they click.

Unlike the ones which,

Decorate or deface,

The walls of our grandparents.

From those days,

When photographs were occasions,

To appear austere and sober.

One day,

All this will pass,

And all I leave behind,

Will be memories.

Of a life lived,

Of smiles, laugher and tears.

Or wait,

Aren’t our memories skewed,

To remember only the details,

We want to?


The tears may be forgotten,

The laugh lines may remain,

Unless someone philosophical,

May try to decipher the marred lines,

Of sorrow and depression,

Unmasked and irreversible

Even by olay…

But whatever it may be,

One day,

Wooden, golden or embellished,

I will be surrounded by just a frame,

Of the fashion of that day,

All I leave behind,

Are memories.







Photo credit:

This entry was posted in Philosophy, poems, poetry, psychology, self image, thoughts, Uncategorized and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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