1,000 pictures calling out
with sore voices and static

detached faces clamoring around
like people dancing
in mismatched socks
scrutinizing through
abandoned roles of film

i think they're waiting to be claimed or
tossed under the microscope,
to be identified further
for scratches and other technicalities
missed the first time around

deformities will be tossed aside,
as perfection takes it's toll

in a world where grey doesn't cut it
if left under for too long,
colors will emerge where
there's no space for anything but black

barely audible,
her picture remains,
without intentions
and without any reply to be put
in a mason jar

to be kept on the window sill,
as prisms of light shine through

and break the silence of the place that
brings her sobs under review
as she tries to find a match
for the only piece of colour that
would make sense worn on her.

07/17/2005