Frozen, unblinking, faces
Peering out
From the stillness
Bleached into
Black and white.
Real people, fossilised
By the leering lens.
Real passions petrified
Vibrant, textured lives
Captured,
Nailed up
Adorning
The living’s wall.

But, they are gone,
Their vaporous trail
Leaving only
A vague ethereal fragrance.

And, soon,
Under the very same moon,
I too,
Will exist only
As a visual representation
Imprinted upon
A dead piece of tree.