Photo Digest: Poetry Edition

His master's voice.

His master's voice he played one day, to listen to over and over. The last time his master's voice was heard, he'd been a bit younger, a bit more sober. On repeat he played the song of his sadness, with a tone that echoed a voice no longer near. For his master had moved on some time ago, an old pain ending, a new one beginning, early last year.

Again and again and again it played, as if to solidify the existence of a memory. Was he real? Or never reality? Bits and pieces ebb and flow, for now the memory is long ago... A bit more frantically it plays, for a fleeting moment the memory stays. The vision is gone, but not the song.

Skipping in place, over, and over, and over again, 'til the recording has been etched into the fabric of time.