Still
Still by Emma Scharff
I want to die, my grandmother tells me
but there’s so much still;
the sunbeams unfractured by loss, changed only by those stained panes of window glass
there is still the day, rain soaked as it is
and that new world of yours
unencumbered by remembrance
a trail of fleeting moments and fading memories
photographs
now devoid of color
no, adopting a grey scale
now vintage-chic