Sepia

My ancestors deck the walls of my house,

Each portrait is framed , polished and tinted.

Carefully placed so , immortalised in tones of sepia.

Devoid of any colour , 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.

sepia

 

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