Burnt Fingers, numb and ink-stained

Dead pictures, black and white
And time stained,
Leaking the scent of memories
Folded neatly on yellowing paper.

Lit by the subtle glow of quiet flames
That whisper to the darkening sky,
Rising, curling, creeping smoke
That kisses the sound
Of music pleading with the night

"Call, I follow; I follow, let me die"

Sirens and angels and things of beauty
Lurking in the shadows past the mist
Surrounding the study of
Dead and dying pictures, dusty memories;
Sepia toned photographs
That bend the Idylls
Of the Kings, into her own reasons for tears...

Her fingers; burnt, numb, and ink stained
Stroke the spines of memories,
Beneath a wreath of smoke in the darkness
Burnt lavender scented, burying the smell of dust, of centuries,
Numb fingers touch her own
Pale Madonna's cheek
To draw away the tears
And bury them beneath yellowing reasons.