Still Life

Years have sliced me

Into little squares.

Flat, shiny jewels

So exact and so still

Quaint, noiseless frames

Captured and hoarded

To fill my book.



It is a known fact

That people have traded everything

For just about anything

But I have never known anyone

Give up photos for something else.

Life in a capsule

Some bitter, some limited

Others contained and coated

With saccharine smiles.

It really depends on

How one wants to be remembered.



They say there comes a time

When one questions and despairs,

Like asking a prestidigitator

To pull out a rabbit from a hat

Or to agitate ancient moss at the bottom

Of a pond. Anything.





When I, a lover of words

Could never make heads nor tails

Out of rhymes

That used to give me chills.



Baby pictures seem to be a favorite.

The first smile, the teeth nonexistent and guilt free.

The wedding picture, execution style.

A façade, bricked off by the layer of lies

We try so hard to believe.

We bleach everything

From pillows to blankets,

Repair the damage good as new

Iron the edges (take no hostages!)

There’s nothing we can’t do

To make everything perfect in a photo.

After all, it’s just about lighting.



At night I’d flip

Through my treasure

Eyes growing sharper

Memory growing dim

The sharp edges cutting my finger

Until it bleeds.
-army granada