The Photo Frame

The fatigue pulls on my eyelids.
Sleep deprivation tearing and scattering,
The fine machine that used to be my brain.

I see you, you know, every night that I lie awake
When dream forces itself upon me,
With visions of broken glass;

Glass that used to be a photo frame.

It stood in the hall, facing the foyer
Waiting to bestow its little piece of heaven
Upon every visitor to enter our home.

And in the summer, when the days were warm and the door hung open,
It and its thousand words stood in all their inanimate glory,
Sharing itself with the entire world.

Between its glass face and velvet backing,
It held a memory very dear to me.
Looking at it took me back to times of happiness,
When everything was fresh and new,
Giving me appreciation for the things I had,
For the things I loved.

But when the things I loved were gone,
I became addicted, and the past became my drug.
I would often take that photograph and shut myself away,
Gazing into the picture, losing myself in the past;
And in that moment, everything was as it should have been.
The sun was warm and the light breeze carried the aroma of spring around us.

But moments are fleeting in the infinity of time,
And after this moment I was back in the present day.
With the ugly gray snow, contaminated by the pavement and passing cars.

Someday I'll know why these things happen,
Why cars run over dogs, and hallway tables are knocked down.
Maybe on that day I'll sweep up the broken pieces
That greets my guests with a crunch of glass beneath their feet,

The glass that used to be a photo frame.