The Complacency Of Sight

I was storing old images,

Collections in albums,

Saints who'd gone on,

Times long gone,

Curled at the corners, 

Trapping them beneath cellophane

In polythene prisons,

Little prisms,

Stuffed into cloud and

Driven onto hard drive

In an effort to survive,

I didn't want to take my memory of these images for granted,
To avoid complacency,

Moments come and are gone, you see,

And I didn't want to be without these sights,

When all the time I was taking sight itself for granted,

And should not have taken the moment for granted