Pictures framed are only the past
Some not even existent, except for in my head
Memories so vibrant you’ll never forget
A spring day, eruption of flowers and delicate scents reach your nose
Golden flowers fill the fields
While, you yield to memories that deceived
By their beauty released
Power held in appearance
Quickly taken back, by the actions that did not occur
So in hibernation, I wait for the truth, not covered in false promises.
Angela K. Crandall


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