Untitled (at least for now)

Today, only a photograph remains.
So sad a picture always fails. So I
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

Eyes will hide torment, where phrase still contains.
Sadly though, when I recall his soft sigh,
Today, only a photograph remains.

Desperate, I know how memory wanes.
But I love more to listen to his lie,
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

Good. I imagine his spirit complains
that old mothers at that smile can cry:
Today, only a photograph remains!

Whispers still sigh, of relief he attains,
and (free finally from life's evil eye),
Preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.

I imagine the congealed crimson stains,
revenge for the rest, who ask themselves why,
“Today, only a photograph remains.”
But I preserve his words, as if blood in his veins.