Time without sympathy

By Shawna Peete

I’ve told mother before
There’ll come a day,
That a photo says nothing
Or will awaken the senses.
Photos of a young woman.
Suddenly she will ask,
“Is that your mother?”

Older photos tell a tale
Of black and white shades,
If not accidently tarnished,
They’ll naturally decay.
Colored photos become yellow;
Hers turn black and white.
Vision is lost in picture,
Lost in the mind.


The world is filled with pigments
Because color is of the eye.
Eye of the mind, mind of the age.
Black and white is the only focus.
Mother rests in the dark
Adjusting to the shade
And one last light.

So what hasn’t time said
That mother didn’t know?
Nature will defeat man,
Where the ink lines will fade
Blend in with the paper,
So we’d all be strangers.
Mother has been told,
She can’t remember.


Is it better left than said
Of all these pictures lost?
Mother quite sanguine,
Ignorance for a sedative.
Condolences from the mind
So you never have to fear
What took it away.

So, if there’s a creator
His name must be “time”.
Spoiled by his ample mother,
Gluttonous towards other children.
So short of any empathy
Our mentality falls in its hex.
Hers becomes unrecognized,
I become unnamed.