The Changing Picture

The picture faded in a pile of dust As everything else does after many suns shine on it and color it rust till it discolors in the night of mind How old, how precious It doesn't matter It was there and then it left its place for new things, as the trees broke into new blossoms of love You pick up the pieces, your hands recoil from the dust of a thousand storms that blew away the fields of love and left a scatter of memories in wake How it hurt or made you bleed It doesn't matter It was there and then it left its place for new faces, as the lips broke into new smiles of coquetry