My ancestors deck the walls of my house,

Each portrait is framed, polished and tinted.

Carefully placed so, immortalized in tones of sepia.

Devoid of any color, their expression; placid.

As if time never existed, and all there ever was, was nothing.

Starched collars and stiff petticoats with frills of sorts,

Some tall, some short. Some lean and some stout.

Their faces are etched in my memory, their names are engraved.

I bury them in the darkest corner of my mind, only to have them resurface again.

For if to remind me that I too am one of them.

For if to warn me that I too, will become one of them;

Eternally framed, painted and hung,

In hues of sepia.




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