The Archivist

I'll get caught up in old photographs
Tacky trinkets scattered around like whitened bones
My gentle trunk will collect each one
Weigh the memories held inside – Searching & Mourning

Thought lies through these things
Promises of the past shattered
When truth and reality diverge
And colour bleeds out of foxed pages

I've become an archivist already
Posterity is the purpose when actions have dried up
And the cracked remains continue to hang on
Effortlessly outlasting my brittle body