Paintings on the wall
Hanging on the wall,
Paintings of yesteryears
As time collects its toll,
Stamping its signatures
On the dust of the past
Playing out the pantomime
So uncompromising, yet unjust
The silent march of time.
Sometimes a fight back transient,
A careful cleaning of rust,
Restoring the peeled off paint,
Delicately blowing off the dust.
For a private screening
Of dormant frozen friezes,
Of times that were and might have been,
Mute memoirs in bits and pieces.
Of smiles and sighs, an interplay,
Sandwiched but for a few moments,
Between tomorrow and yesterday,
Living the past in the present tense.
While on the wall that lies ahead
There waits in anticipation cold,
The unadorned frames, naked undead
To host the tableaux yet untold.
To be painted in colors nitid,
Decaying slowly to black and white.
Till there will be the few tepid,
Frames forever left empty, contrite,
Timelessly ruing night and day
For all that theirs could have been.
If time had not taken time away,
And passed away to times unseen.
Daneel Olivaw
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