That was the first thing that popped into my head when I first read this poem and what I already saw myself doing, ended up being carried through. Playing this song over and over again to fill the dire need in my heart for some kind of static.
There is an indescribable amount of pain one has endured in order to write such beautiful words and have this translate to something in the vicinity of agonizing bliss.
Memories are sometimes not valued as they should be. Moments that life has granted you to freeze in your own personal vault. Depending on how beautiful or painful the memory might be, you could end up storing it and cherishing it for as long as eternity, always holding it dear to you through-out your many journey's through life.
These are some of the things I see speaking to me in this beautiful poem.
Long neglect has worn away
Half the sweet enchanting smile;
Time has turned the bloom to gray;
Mold and damp the face defile.
But that lock of silky hair,
Still beneath the picture twined,
Tells what once those features were,
Paints their image on the mind.
Fair the hand that traced that line,
“Dearest, ever deem me true”;
Swiftly flew the fingers fine
When the pen that motto drew.
Emily Jane Brontë