The Antique

The lustrous paper turned puce
Like an ebony smeared with gore
These are the fading memories, when
Lens and light were only spectators;
While the antique became a treasure,
Forgetting was never easy.

The red ink painted that old picture
Of lovers on their innocence,
On a romance that all of them
Wants to forget; and when
Only one heart thinks back
Forgetting must be a blessing.

On the musty wall hanged
The old framed picture where great
Grandpa looks every day–with an
Echoing cough on a rocking chair,
The beaming smiles of two boys
In the photograph are contagious.

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