Summer

From the dimly lit

picture frame

She begs silently

with her colours,

Her eyes

are bright.

Her colours,

dull.

The nail is a little bit loose in the wall

It moves with the children's footsteps.

The hole's deep, dark and

becoming wider, with each step

for the nail that's a little bit too loose in the wall.

It's from age

and that which comes with it.

The light won't make things change

for the better

Restoration will take away

from her that which resembles a soul.

The dim lights had no meaning,

they were never the problem at all.

It was the near darkness that

protected the nearly extinguished.

Turning up the brightness only

scorches, the already ashen

garb she models.

Don't blow on it

specks of dust, old memories

and cold ashes

are harder to gather through

the gentlest winds.