The Photograph

Every morning, your picture sits in front of me

I see you every time I look up from my writing

It focuses me more

My story is centred on you

From the past, events build the backstory

You revised the currency of your new being

The phantom fox extends it into infinite possibilities

You are chased across the pages

Nothing is clear until the turn

Your true personality explodes

I couldn’t see this before 

It’s driving my new chapters

Now the picture takes me onwards

In the evening, the side light bathes the photograph

I watch it as the darkness fills my room, it colours my words

The pages develop into where we should be

Where we should end

The means is lacking somewhat and I am at a loss

I look at your glowing image colouring my study brown

I have difficulty thinking on as the world is brown

My heavy eyes see little, so I rest

The coffee is bitter as it descends my throat, scalding me

I sip again and suffer more

The flaming fire burns at me as I huddle closer

I peer into the flames that flicker scenes

Dance characters across the coals

The fleeting glimpses miss my mind

They play like clouds on a summer’s day

They do not rest long enough to form

I look back at the desk, your image still stares at me

Haunting me across the room

The ending waits as I finish my coffee

The pain jabs me as it goes down

It’s like a stabbing dagger landing in my gut

I see you cutting there

I see you jabbing over a lifetime of indiscretions

There is only one way to go

I see it happening to the end

I take the picture from the frame and throw it into the fire

You look back at me, the edges smoulder and burn

The image lasts for what seems an age, until you are gone

I poke you into the coal and dust


About Lindsay Craik

Writer & Poet Poetry, plays and short stories
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