In Photos

In photos we get a two dimensioned view of the past; The past was never short of dimensions But it is our feeling part that's missing Old images of self are curiously cold, impassive; Smiling or frowning, they have the same feel, Removed from us, by time and space, They could be a million years distant, or only one. Is there any other way, in life That you can stare at yourself, as an observer And not have any idea what thoughts are present? That is life every day, lived in a dark vacuum; Life knowing not it's own mind, any more Than each second, something gets born And each second, something dies- And is buried, without even a name.