Picture Frame
She picks up the picture frame,
And cries with it night after night,
Keeping the memory of her love,
Strong and always alive.
They had shared a bond so strong,
That seemed would never break;
But when God deemed the end,
Words seemed too shallow; too late.
Days before she had just given her curses,
Yelled and slammed the door;
"I hate you," she had shouted,
A wound her words had bore.
Never had the chance to take back her curses,
And explain they were out of madness;
But now it's too late for any regrets,
As she walks among the masses.
She picks up the picture frame,
And cries with it night after night,
Keeping the memory of her love,
Strong and always alive.
When she arrived at the funeral,
Of the one she used to hold so dear,
She struggled and had to force herself,
Not to shed a single tear;
Too afraid to admit the truth,
That her love was truly no longer here.
And then she goes home to an empty house,
Alone and hollow like never before,
So many tears had been shed,
Her eyes now red and sore.
She picks up the picture frame,
And holds it warm and tight,
Keeping the memory of her love,
And guilt close inside;
She let a single tear fall down her cheek,
As she whispers she'll see her love again,
One day, when she too leaves the world,
Things will once again be the same.
~~~ June, 1999~~~
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