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.