For forty four hundred years

The maple leaf hung

On the brown painted branch

In the read oak frame.
The colors had faded

To white. The yellows

The reds the greens like

An echo receding away.
And the mummified image flaked

The frame rotted

And the wall on which it hung

A forest of studs.
In this condition

The pilgrim found it

Hiding in a decrepit house

From his decrepit life.
For forty years his face had faded

For forty years his skin felt dry

For forty years he’d sensed

He’s dying.
He saw the picture on the wall

“You faded beast! Curse your maker”

He took it, threw it, but couldn’t break it

It did not shatter. It turned to dust.
And so shall he.

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