The Frame

Resting against this pure white, sturdy wall,
Is a frame of glass, cheap plastic and grime;
Clinging to images of a lost time.
An inscription engraved in listless scrawl,
Of illegible letters used to haul
Back to moments that reek of the sublime,
When stood against walls that flattered its’ prime,
Unburdened by conscience, never to fall.
It frames white thoughts that may never have been,
A raging spirit that was never seen.
Dreams so often promised; never fulfilled.
Something to reach to; heavily instilled.
But amongst it all is a tiny clue,
An image within, of someone: it’s you.