Dead Photographs

by donnor

Wonder is here, with a world full of possibilities but those fucking birds sing in the middle of the night; I can’t breathe, my air is yours it just taste bitter. A child stares at the face in the photograph and knows nothing of that woman. Not the dreams she had or the realities that were lived, not the love made, and the love sacrificed, and not the imagination laid before her that promised a new life. When we are recognized no more we will have died again our infinite death. We live now, while our shadows of existence are still cast...

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