Disappearing Act

The pictures hang on the wall,
neatly, almost in a perfect row,
shared with trepidation,
pictures of a soul in turmoil,
neatly framed, matted,
so obvious they cannot be missed,
except of course they are,
day after day,
never seen,
no matter how often they hang in plain view,
they disappear,
become part of the wall,
invisible
even as they scream
late into the night.

About this poem

The pictures above hang on a wall leading to the restrooms of a local museum. I stood there one day, watching person after person walking past them, never seeing them. Which is a shame. They were beautiful.

The same thing happens in our lives. Way, way too often.

Tom