The ghost stands next to fallen 68,
Nameless in solitude, framed by time’s hands.
Photographic moment answers crashed fate,
Tattered wings painted by shrapnel strewn sands.
This was not a sad Gothic tale told true,
But an inky phantasm of shadows bent,
Creating a semblance in some false hue.
So is this new digital memory rent.
How can one find this vague etched place ‘n time ?
Release this outlined faux from ghostly haunt –
No more in purgatory this blank mime.
For this is but an exercise in thought.
How can this image be a truthful thing,
When by manipulation it did spring ?
Note: Broken Sonnet suffers from fractured metre and misplaced rhyme. Source images from Library of Congress (Here) and National Library Ireland (Here) in combination with metal surface texture created from some of my photos.