There Hangs a Photograph

There hangs a photograph,
On the pale walls of my room,
He smiles in it fresh and vibrant,

The most beautiful smile I had ever seen in my life!
Yet, the smile is hollow
And the walls are pale,
For, there lives no soul
In that beautiful click of years by-gone.
Among the scrolls of my memories
There lies a Golden page,
The shine of which Even a thousand Suns cannot behold!
Marked he is, in that glittering page;
Fondly loved and Forever cared,
The Joy, the Worth, the Breath of my life!
I see him not, in the wooden frame
That hang on our walls so pale.
Deep in the depths of my very own self
I can still feel him breathing hard,
The red-hot blood pouring in, not yet cold,
Numb and frozen in his heart!
He did not die, when they brought him home,
The warmth of his cheeks, could feel against mine.
He did not die, when they laid him down,
For, the hopes of his wife still clung to his knees.
His soul did not flee from its earthly sheath
Even with the stench of perfumes all around,
They slid into his mouth, grains of rice and wheat
Yet, his throat did not choke to a miserable death.
But, I killed him, I killed him in an instant’s time
With that Final kiss laid upon his head!
All the Death knells tolled at once
Death of Hope.
Death of Time.
He was gone,
Forever gone
Long before I could even utter a cry.
All that remained,
A tempestuous Heart,
The Endless Dark, and
The deepest mournings of Silent years