Photographs are cruel they torture and they wound
Piercing the heart that aches for youth
And mourns those not around
They show the past that’s slipped away
As though it were just yesterday.
They've neither flesh nor warmth of blood
No beating heart, no touch, no love.
No paper image can replace
a touch, a breath, a hand, a face.
Not real and near they have no voice
No loving nearness there by choice.
No living being fills the space,
With laugh, or scent, or pride of place.
Not for me these paper squares
Yellow, dog eared, aged, fading,
Ageless smiles and practiced pose
Silent staring, faded stone.