Pictures merely tell the rumor of a half-remembered story,
A book with pages tattered and worn, yellowed with age,
The ink faded and dull, dying to eternity.
Memories fall away like rain dropping down glass,
Fogging the view, warping the truth, and sliding to death.
All is fleeting and passing like a silent train in the night,
But there are no stops but one;
Only the moment of now is the single real thing.
All else is dusty vanity drowning in yesterday’s ashes.