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The Faded Picture . . . of Her
For years I stared at the faded picture thinking there was a story, if only I could figure it out and find the glory of truth; then, I wouldn’t be lonely. Her dull, grey eyes stare back at me with a mischievous, secretive smile, as if taking great pleasure in knowing a mystery’s growing all the while. Did she know or even dream that this tantalizing bit of paper would cause me to scream as my mind desperately tried to shape and reshape her? My life for her, with all its glamor, caused me to damn her for its waste and frivolous, fleshy appetite for which she was willingly debased. Still another fantasy has her beaten down by poverty and cruel life where dignity is eaten like bread, to survive it’s sacrificed under the knife. These worthless wanderings are only the lonely thoughts of one who’s haunted by tortured imagination and reality of one who is not wanted. From a cracked mirror, dark eyes stare back at me, mocking my brown face so much like her dainty features; yet not of the same race.
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