Memories burnt on halide strips-
Mischiefs managed, secrecy maintained.
Lazy strolls down the serene corridor.
Books turned bat, crumpled paper balls,
Bottles queued up- three in a row
Weapons in hand- water, paint and pellets-
It was love best expressed.
I rummage through the cardboard box.
I walk down the hall of frames-
Dusty rims, foggy glass
And there lay the picture within.
I know they wander, just as I do.
We have seen the dusty frames.
But eyes have turned away
For the debris hurts them.
It is forgotten…Forgotten it is…
‘Cause forgotten we like it
And so it shall be…