A shot of faces whipping a ball, leaning the log
Tarnished ones, others brown, blurred as fog
Lined the stair walls, they on table top
Some are ancient, the others recent and mine are cropped;
Smeared faces, lavished gowns,pretty frocks I look at them
Tiara heads, sequined coats, layered hem
Hanging bulbs, pretty muses and gallant consorts
Upward, upstairs did I climb, staring on all the part;
I gasped; wondering now what must’ve gone odd with me?
Have I been dreaming, believed it happened, it can’t be!
But, oh! so clear, stared I at them all ‘round me
Framed shots had transformed my room into a gallery.