Centre Of The Picture

The journey to being lost

Starts with a desire filled with lust,

And as time tends to unfold,

So will erratic events appear untold.

Here, our little story begins

With you at the centre of the picture

And you keep wondering

How and why life could treat you so badly?

The answers you seek are always there,

Bold and apparently clear,

That you simply fail to live

And thus, live to fail.

Anguish is never an option to bargain,

It draws nearer with every irksome thought you retain

And though, we have heard seasons and come and go,

Not what has been done but left undone can only make us feel low.

It does begin with a thought;

Forsaking memories of unsuccessful battles you have fought,

And what if you were told life will never be fair,

Will you remain this pathetic; waiting to be whisked away by death’s frenetic air?

Here, our little story ends

With you still at the centre of the picture

And if you must have a resolve daily,

What is the one thing you would see removed from your photograph?

Your picture at the centre;

The frame that glued it to the wall;

Or the entire photograph with you at the centre of the picture?