Peace Be With The Printed

Lost boxes backed by dreams

of picket fences and violet tables.

Of breaths that take away unknowns

and lights that sing of all that’s old.

But boxes move and I can’t hid

when those dreams get too exposed.

So put down those black and whites,

return your quiet schemes.

Peace be with the printed

and rest to those who grieve.

You'll put the photo down because

memory won’t fade that colored hue

of her face in the corner of that concert room,

of your hope of what might be coming back to you.

So you placed it in boxes stacked up by dreams

of restless nights, so carelessly free.

For as much as you wanted a moment to breathe,

you’ll be waiting for pictures of me.

So peace be with the printed and rest to those who grieve.