2011 - Day 156

A meadow, soft, and rolling hills,
Families come to take their stills,
Photos lasting longer than
The letter written with the pen,
And that is exactly what kills me.

A useful tool outside our heads,
We mix them up with blues and reds,
Until memory becomes a dream
Until the water turns to steam,
Forgotten thought, our tears are shed.

Capture time and space itself,
A piece of soul is taken out,
To what extent, God only knows
But just like wine the future flows,
Drink up or store it on the shelf-
This is what defines you.