this age, framed

sit at a shore, illuminated.

the sun's grin like your misery

lines of those memories in the sand,
on your skin

reflections in the water, altered by some foreign hand

face blurred
you don't recognize
this horror

since you've never faced it before
it scares you even more

chords of some distant ancient
piano playing songs

a framed photograph
washes to your feet

one of a new born in a crib
looks oddly like you

thoughts with the photograph in hand: this age has progressed
no longer do we lie in our cribs for the sake of rest

we've dug these graves
to wake and see the face of man telling,
thee

it's all grand
it's all figured out
there's nothing
to doubt
but those in which go against
all that's man

it's all so real
the static tells
you

don't you see
you've just got to believe
in the static
creating images

you hold the framed picture
of the newborn
and
exist
at the
illuminated
shore
without
a word

the photograph becomes
the moment
of you
waiting for
nothing